


Good Endings

by WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (And With Aziraphale), (But Means Well), A Lot Of Illustrations, Agnes Nutter Is An Interfering Old Busybody, All Illustrations Compiled In Last Chapter, And A Bit Of Drama At The End, And I Mean 'Idiots', Angst, Bad Matchmaking, Crowley Cuddles With A Snake, F/M, Fluff, Frankly Terrible Matchmaking!, How else can I sell this?, Humor, Idiots in Love, Illustrations, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), JUST KISS ALREADY!!!!, Lots Of Queen References, M/M, Matchmaking, More Prophecies, Mutual Pining, Silly Cuteness, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: A Narrative of Certain Events following the Ending of the World (Except Not Quite), as vaguely hinted at in The Slapdash and Not Very Helpful Prophetic Tidbit of Agnes Nutter, Witch (And Matchmaker.)"Their lives are in horrible, terrible danger that only we can save them from!" Anathema held up the Prophetic Tidbit. "It says so. Right here."Madame Tracy peered at the page.Raised a meaningful eyebrow."Dearie, as a woman of, well,considerable experience,I really don't think that's what 'the lyttle Deathe' means in this context...""Huh." Anathema squinted. Flipped the page. Read another bit. "....huh."(Or, alternatively: Eight - give or take - matchmakers tryingreally, really hard,honest; two clueless ethereal/occult beings mutually pining their endless days away; and one witch, who can't leave well enough alone when it comes to matters of the heart, no matterhowmany centuries ago she died.)





	1. Prologue: Evening Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Good Omens fandom! I have a feeling it's going to be wild in here for a while...
> 
> This story is meant as a bit of a post-canon thing after the book, and, since it was started before watching the TV show (or, indeed, knowing of its existence) won't draw overly much from that.  
> I might adjust later chapters if there's any major canon divergences that suit my purposes, but the illustrations are all roughly how I imagined the characters prior to seeing images from the series.
> 
> That said, do enjoy, Esteemed Reader, and feel free to fangirl/-boy/-person with me in the comments!
> 
> EDIT: The wonderful GlassyTheRosePen has made a Spotify playlist out of all the Queen songs mentioned in this fic! Check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/user/pen_rose/playlist/5neeQaeCvb8Y5urenukA6L?si=pVz2oRORQImQEDUDV7PGLg)

 

 

* * *

 

 

A lot has been written about the day the world almost-but-not-quite-nearly-oh-bugger-all-missed-your-chance ended.

How an Angel and a Demon stood ready to fend off Lucifer himself, how the Antichrist chose humanity*, and three little rascals defeated three rather scary horsepersons.

 

*to the dismay of Heaven, Hell, and Satan Himself, who would spend the following few years in the Pit, wailing about what in Creation he had done wrong to not even get joint custody.

 

How a Professional Descendant and a Witchfinder Private managed to destroy some electronics with the strong intent to fix it, how a Medium flew a little motor scooter all the way to Lower Tadfield, and a Witchfinder Sergeant was very lucky indeed to have missed his shot at Beelzebub.

 

It's a grand tale indeed, but much less has been noted down regarding the evening following immediately thereafter:

How Shadwell stayed up half of it, gulping down condensed milk and muttering about 'painted Jezebels' with a wistful quality to his voice;

How Madame Tracy laid her savings out on the kitchen table, and thought 'why yes, enough for two, I should think' with a soft smile;

How Newt and Anathema proved Agnes and legions of encouraging comments in the margins wrong by doing it again, and then once more for good measure, until they fell asleep curled around each other and happier than they'd been in a long time, even if Anathema slightly mourned the absence of prophecies in her further life;

How Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian placed the sword, the scales and the crown respectively on their nightstands, and dreamed about the things they liked best (without any angelic interference needed, even);

How Adam was sent to bed early and without dessert,* but didn't actually mind terribly much, because it would've been leftover grapefruit pudding and he would've sneakily fed that to Dog anyway;

 

*A boy needed supper, even if he had misbehaved, Mr. Young believed.

 

And, finally, how Aziraphale said "oh, it's all burned down, isn't it" just as they left the M25, sounding as lost as a puppy tied to a tree in the woods, right when the realisation hits that its owners aren't going to come back and pick it up again, after all.

 

* * *

 

"Er. Yeah." Crowley, for his part, still had the Bentley's ignition keys (or the clumps of half-melted metal they had become) in his pocket, and had been planning to have a similar breakdown over them later, the reminder of which now rather choked him up.

In some possible universe,* he'd probably left them behind with the rest of the ruined Bentley, and instead of being painfully reminded, was free to invite Aziraphale over to stay with him.

 

*His existence as an Occult Being didn't mean Crowley couldn't appreciate the genius inherent in the many-worlds-interpretation, did it?

 

He might've made a weak quip about the congealing Duke of Hell by the door, sat the angel down on his couch, made him a strong - read: brandy-infused - cup of cocoa, and then willed up some 15th century religious texts he could cuddle in his sleep.

Certainly, Aziraphale would've known they weren't real, still refused to potentially damage them, "and you know, my dear boy, I'm not much for sleeping anyway", but Crowley would've made the effort, and Aziraphale would've appreciated it, and perhaps, perhaps...

 

But that was rather inconsequential, since in _this_  universe, Crowley took the blessed - excuse his French - keys and therefore failed to extend this hypothetical invitation in time; so Aziraphale, still eerily resembling a dejected infant animal, muttered "better take a hotel room, then" and requested to be let out at the next intersection.

"You could- that is, at my-" Crowley tried feebly, but just like with the Apocalypse, the moment had passed, and choices had been made and set in stone.

"No, no, it's quite alright." Aziraphale waved him off. "I'll find myself a new place tomorrow, it's just for this night. But thank you, my dear, it's very good of you to offer."

 _Good indeed._  Crowley thought with a sigh, and obligingly let him out at the intersection.

And if, afterwards, the car felt very cold and lonely all of a sudden, then Crowley blamed it on a) it not being a Bentley, and b) the absence of Queenterpretations of classical music he associated so heavily with driving.

Nothing to do with Aziraphale at all, he listlessly tried to convince himself.

 

Demons mustn't feel that way about angels, after all.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale sat on a frankly disgusting bed in a frankly disgusting hotel room he'd chosen solely for the well-stocked mini bar, sipping on a blessedly mind-numbingly potent... liquid, he wasn't sure of the specifics, and running his fingers over the room's Gideon Bible.

It was a far cry from his lovely _Buggre Alle This_ edition, but one made do if one had lost all of one's treasured books in one fell swoop.

Tomorrow morning, he would go and see if even a scrap of paper had survived the flames, however unlikely, and then... then... meet with Crowley.

Part of him wanted to beg the demon for asylum in his flat the next day, wanted to do so right now in fact, but he forced it down.

Honestly, there had been a time when he'd been perfectly content without Crowley for centuries at a time*, and now, he couldn't stand to be alone for a few days?

 

*Only checking up on him on a few rare occasions. Watching him sleep in the 19th century had been particularly endearing.

 

No, no, he had to be weaned before it was too late. Now that the Antichrist business was over and done with, they had little reason to speak so frequently, no doubt Crowley would tell him so himself tomorrow.

And, _really,_ Aziraphale told himself firmly, taking another swig, angels shouldn't be feeling that way about demons.

 

Shouldn't feel that way _at all._

 

* * *

 

  
So much for that evening.

 

The next day has, for the most part, been detailed most excellently by the Honoured Sirs Pratchett and Gaiman, and therefore requires not nearly as much retelling. We refer the Confused Reader to their account of events, and carry on without them.

They'll surely catch up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this prologue while waiting for the episodes to come out - are you excited? I'm excited!!!!! - and I'll put the next chapter up tomorrow, after that there will probably be more time between updates.


	2. The Prophet's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLIGHTLY SERIES-SPOILER-Y AUTHOR'S NOTE!!!
> 
> I am now wondering whether I might not be a Device on my great-grandaunt's side, considering I called both the invitation into Crowley's flat and another scene new in the series that has an eerily close counterpart in a later chapter.
> 
> SPOILER END!!!
> 
> My humblest apologies for that. Do carry on, and we hope you enjoy the following chapter!

(Think, if you will, of a calendar on a wall.

You don't see them often these days, a tragedy really, so please imagine the loveliest old-fashioned calendar on floral wallpaper, and watch the pages fall.

Not too many of them, no. Just a handful, a month, perhaps. A month plus change, during which new circumstances are settled into, status quos are re-established, comfortable routines are fallen back into; and  Aziraphale never quite gets around to that 'weaning' business he was on about, but that's quite alright, since Crowley -  _inexplicably_ \- keeps hanging about.

It's just long enough to nearly forget how close the world was to ending, but not  _quite_  enough for that golden summer to fade entirely into autumn.

This is where our tale picks up again.)

 

* * *

 

Newt had always been under the impression that one could absolutely have too much of a good thing, and eventually grow sick of just about anything.

The exception, he had learned in the last month-plus-change, was Anathema.

Anathema, and the really quite enjoyable activities they were still conducting together, which somehow managed to keep him captive in a way not even electronics had ever managed.

Mrs. Pulsifer, he found himself thinking on occasion. Damn Agnes and damn her nice and really terribly accurate prophecies.

"Oh, whoops." Anathema - Anathema Pulsifer, didn't sound half bad, did it? - glanced over the edge of the bed. "Alright?"

"Perfectly." Newt answered honestly, even if his back was maybe a little bruised. Next time when they tried something so... _athletic,_ they should really do it closer to the center of the bed. "I'll just- huh."

"Huh what?" Anathema asked, and arranged herself in a manner that drew a lot of Newt's attention.

"This floorboard, it's a little... know what, never mind."

(Anathema had just stretched luxuriously.)

"I'll look at it later."

 

(Now please imagine a clock, on that same floral wallpaper, hands moving. But not too far, Newt and Anathema were still quite young after all, and such matters were resolved somewhat speedily.)

 

"Now, what was that about a floorboard?" Anathema asked over breakfast. (English, naturally, baked beans and all. They needed the calories.)

"There's a loose one, by the bed." Newt heaped more scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Felt it give a little."

"Right." Anathema bit into her toast. "We can fix it ourselves later, can't we?"

"As long as there's no cables under it..."

"If there's anything electric," she assured him, "I'll throw you out of the room myself and repair it alone."

"Sensible." Newt agreed, and sipped his tea.

 

* * *

 

 

Once breakfast was done with - including a brief interlude against the kitchen counter - the two went back into the bedroom, carefully ignored the bed, and went down to business.

The floorboard was, as it turned out, not actually loose in the sense of needing repair. It was loose in the sense of deliberately making the space beneath it accessible, rusty creaking hinges and all.

Under the floorboard, there was a tiny little package, and a note in frightfully familiar handwriting.

"Oh, _no."_ Newt groaned.

 

It so happened that Agnes Nutter, all in all, left three things behind when she erased both herself and an entire village, plus multiple Witchfinders, from this earth.

The last of which was the contents of the parcel under the floorboard, labeled _For Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer._

"Why's it addressed to your parents?" Anathema asked with a frown.

"Oh. Er." Newt laughed weakly. "That's just... Agnes, that is, thinks we... well. We."

"Huh." Anathema scrunched up her nose in a manner Newt found he was quite fond of. "She's getting ahead of herself there, isn't she?"

Newt grimaced when he was sure she was not looking.

"But... maybe not overly much." Anathema allowed, contemplatively glancing over at Newt, who found himself grinning in a hopefully suave and tempting fashion.*

 

*Newt, bless his heart, had never in his life been suave or, God and Satan forbid, _tempting,_ and this occasion proved to be no exception. He could count himself quite lucky that 'vaguely gormless' was somewhat growing on Anathema.

 

Inside the packet was a tiny, leather-bound booklet.

Its cover read "A Well-Meaning and Helpful Prophetic Tidbit, by Agnes Nutter, Witch" in faded ink, and a note was stuffed between cover and first page, with precise instructions to conceal this volume under a certain floorboard in a certain cottage as soon as it was built, and never mention it to any of her descendants, "'til such daye that theyr forfe-full passion carrieth them unto it".

"Oh, for- that voyeuristic...!" Newt spluttered.

"Hush!" Anathema elbowed him, her inner Professional Descendant squealing in delight at the sight of _more prophecies._ "This is important, terribly, terribly important! She must've known we'd burn the other book, and prepared this one to make absolutely sure we'd... well, she wouldn't go through so much effort for nothing, would she?"

Newt was tempted to point out that she was trying to attribute common sense to the woman that may well be the inspiration behind the phrase 'what a nutter', but Anathema eerily reminded him of a predatory feline protectively hunched over her young, and he felt criticising the booklet or its author might not be a wise course of action at the moment.

 

"'Deareft Anathema," Anathema read out loud. "Well I know flame envelopeth what remaynes of prophecy; and nay, no judgemente doth I speake unto ye. But alas, done thy task be not; reade well thif brief volume, and, togethere, doeth what shall becom.' Oh wow!"

"Yeah. Wow." Newt echoed somewhat less enthusiastically.

Anathema took no notice.

"I'll need file cards..." She muttered, somehow scrambling to her feet even though her nose was still firmly glued to the pages.

Newt sighed, and walked off to make some tea in a slouch that would've made Mr. Tyler huff so forcefully he might well have fainted from oxygen loss.

_Here we go again._

 

* * *

 

 

 

Thif concerneth two, and what businesse be betwixt them,

Though two shall ayde, and four shall also ayde, and two more;

Firft, Printhypality of the Gate to the Easte,

Assumeth by All to batte foer his owne team,

Skolar of Scrypte which containeth blafphemy and rude worde,

That he hoardeth moft ardentely.

Seconde, Saerpent foul, thou not fiendish,

He who createth crueltey alike the Chestre of Man,

Yet, for Friende and All being on Earthe

In Fyre runne and rideth.

Marke thif: witheout ayde given unto them by ye, moft wretched theyr Fates shall be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest Nugget has brought to my attention that Agnes's prophetic ramblings are a little exhausting to decipher, so, I decided to provide a Nutter-to-English translation.*
> 
> *For the full dictionary, please contact Anathema Device-Pulsifer in Lower Tadfield.
> 
> This is about two people, and their relationship,  
> Though eight other people will also be involved;  
> First, Aziraphale,  
> Who everybody thinks is gay,  
> A scholar of misprint bibles,  
> Which he collects with enthusiasm.  
> Second, Crowley, who is bad, but not _bad-bad,_ you know?  
> Who's responsible for the atrocity that is Manchester,  
> But, for Aziraphale and humanity,  
> Runs into flaming bookstores and rides in burning Bentleys.  
> Now, listen closely: if you don't help them, these two idiots will continue being miserable forever like the complete and utter dolts they are.
> 
> Hope this helps.  
> Also, who else already watched all the episodes? Leave a comment, I'm just _bursting_ to chat about them!


	3. Coming Your Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, the response so far really is quite something... and it did wonders to motivate me into wrapping up another chapter!  
> Thank you, dear Readers, Kudo-Givers and Commenters, you never fail to make my day!  
> Here, have another chapter, hope you enjoy!

In case the Esteemed Readers are interested in what Aziraphale and Crowley were doing in the meantime:

The short answer is, nothing at all.

The slightly longer answer is, of course they were doing _something, as_  they always did. Dinners, strolls, tending books and plants respectively; but, at the very core of it all, they were at something of an impasse.

Too dependent on each other to reduce contact-that-wasn't-quite-enough to bearable levels again, but also woefully incapable of taking that last little step they'd both been gearing up to for the past 6000 years.

Why?

There's only one length of answer for that: because, no matter how intelligent and how powerful ethereal beings - and beings derived of the same - could be, they were also, as a rule, painfully stupid and incompetent in all the ways that _really_ counted.

Crowley and Aziraphale were exceptional in many ways, but not, regrettably, in this.

 

Besides, they were scared.

Simple as that.

 

This, of course, was quite outstandingly stupid, and the resulting strategy of tight-lipped "it's okay to just be his friend" utterly inadvisable.

To illustrate why, allow us to be a little philosophical for a while.*

 

*Feel free to imagine some mood lighting and sombre background music. It may add to the experience, and take away from how pathetic - in the sense of pathos! _Pathos,_ it's Greek! - it is.

 

* * *

 

Love...

Love, it should be said, never grows bored.

Once it's taken root, it will never truly go away. Endlessly, tirelessly, it will echo in your heart, and you may deny it, replace it, forget it, but love is patient, and will wait its turn.

Forever, if need be.

 

...we will, however, grant, that love - after six thousand or so years - does, sometimes, grow a little... _weary._

 

Take the nightingale, for instance. Singing on Berkeley Square night in and night out, hopping from branch to branch, chirping its little bird heart out, at some point it is bound to think 'well, if they're not going to turn and smile and kiss each other goodnight, why am I even bothering?'

It's singing itself nearly hoarse over the traffic, and really has better things to do than this. It is its own bird, after all, and more than just an instigator of romance.

At this point, however, it occurs to the nightingale that _we,_  too, are merely using it to serve as a vague metaphor about unspoken love, so it huffs and flutters back to its nest to pout, solemnly vowing not to come back and sing in Berkeley Square again until it is being appreciated for its actions, not its symbolism.

 

We must needs find another suitable metaphor. Preferably incapable of fleeing.

 

Love, it should be said, has no expiration date.

It ages like fine wine, buried deep under the earth, only gaining in complexity and richness as the years go by.

But, we'd like to point out: without bringing the bottle back up into the light and uncorking it, well... you can't have your wine, and drink it, too, can you?

Just think of it. That fragile flavour, that sublime sweetness, the tempting taste, waiting, and waiting still, in the cellar of your heart.

Wouldn't it be time to take it out and have a glass?

We encourage the dear Esteemed Reader to take good note of this sentiment, as our protagonists so clearly fail to.

 

(And yes, we know. It's all rather silly and pointlessly poetic, but the fact remains that, if somebody had thought to write this piece of advice into an episode of _Golden Girls_  and a Gavotte dancing manual respectively, it would've maybe, perhaps, increased the chances of Crowley and Aziraphale catching wise just by a tad, a minuscule little fragment, an infinitesimal increment...

...and, maybe, that would've been enough.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I think..." Anathema hesitantly began, setting her pen down.

She'd been meticulously going through random prophecies on random pages, cross-referencing, annotating, and interpreting, for the entire day and the better part of the evening.

It was already past midnight, and Anathema was running solely on the wide-eyed wakefulness of the fascinated fanatic, while Newt made do with a nap or two, four cups of coffee, and Agnes-related anxiety.

"I think, we're meant to save somebody's life. Two lives. That's what I've got from this first bit, at least, but it's not as easy to decrypt as it used to be."*

 

*Anathema found that a healthy sex life and actually thinking about other things (she was considering joining some climate activists and preventing the end of the world in a slightly different manner) seriously reduced one's ability to think like a deranged old witch and understand said witch's prophecies.

Plus, no groundwork laid by past generations.

 

"I'm not quite sure who to save, though. And how."

"And why us."

Newt frowned at the Prophetic Tidbit over her shoulder.

"Wait... this here, with the 'wynged both, stayeth brave befor Father of Firftnamed Younge'. It reminds me of... the thing, the unforgettable... oh, what was it... that business at..."

He scratched his head. "Blast, I've forgotten again."

"Oh!" Anathema exclaimed suddenly. "Prophecy 1452! There was a bit about 'Printhypalities', in... ah..."

"Gone again?"

"Yeah." Anathema sighed. "Damn."

Newt patted her shoulder compassionately. Really, the half-erasure of these memories seemed more bothersome than just letting them keep 'em, all in all.

"Almost a shame we burned the prophecies."

Anathema nodded, absentmindedly flipping the page... and froze.

Then she jumped up, and ran right out of the cottage.

"Theema?" Newt scrambled after her.

"AHA!" Anathema triumphantly exclaimed from under the Wasabi's back seat, holding aloft a handful of crumpled file cards. "We missed some!"

"Oh joy."

"59, 3012, 887... 1452! Hertha Device connects the mention of the Principality of the Eastern Gate to the angel guarding the gates of Eden, and that he will be present at the end of all things with his flaming sword."*

 

*Hertha had taken this as a simile on the Industrial Revolution. Why, even Hertha herself hadn't been entirely sure.

 

"I remember someone like that." Newt frowned. "He was... looked like... and there also was... errr..."

"Well." Anathema stuffed the found cards between the pages of the Prophetic Tidbit. "No point to it without remembering, obviously."

She pulled out her bike from beside the car. "Hop on the back, we need to talk to Adam."

"Now!? It's the middle of the-"

"Of course now!" Anathema stared at him incredulously. "Lives could be on the line, and you think we should have a nap first?"

"Erm. Yes. Well. Then, shouldn't we take..." Newt gestured somewhat feebly to the Wasabi.

Anathema sent him a withering look. " _Climate change,_ Newt!"

Newt contemplated whether it was worth pointing out once again that Dick Turpin (Improved) was stunningly fuel-effective and, in its own words,

 

 _Light shines from the east;_  
_The pristine winds of spring_  
_I do not polute._

 

But came to the conclusion that, if he and Anathema really _were_ going to tie the knot - fingers crossed - he was definitely going to be the type of husband who ended up meekly muttering "yes dear" in every argument, so he might as well accept that destiny early.

 

"Yes dear," Newt therefore said, and resigned himself to the fate of being quite soundly, as the youngsters say, whipped - and not minding it even a bit.

 

* * *

 

Anathema, overall, was a very safe driver when it came to bicycles.*

 

*During the day, at least. As Crowley had so kindly pointed out, Phaeton sorely lacked lights and reflectors.

 

She minded the traffic, as it was - Tadfield rush hour consisted of a beaten VW beetle, a very slow tractor visitors always ended up trailing slowly behind on narrow streets, and four to five sheep.

Six on extraordinarily busy days.

She also paid due attention to uneven ground, had the steadfast balance of someone who is perfectly ready to cycle on a tightrope if need be, and diligently dinged her bell at the occasional human obstacle in her path.

 

The problem was only, she also drove _bloody fast._

Newt clung to her and screwed his eyes shut, longingly thinking of Dick Turpin.

Say what you will about the old tin bucket, even at its most obstinate, the Wasabi's inherent disability to come even _close_ to any speed limit Newt had ever encountered was a definite boon.

At least, he reasoned, Agnes probably would've told them if they were going to die in a bicycle wreck.

...wouldn't she?

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mental image of Anathema probably differs most from what is shown in the series... I always envisioned her as half a Greenpeace activist, myself, as you can see.  
> Any "well, I would've portrayed them differently" in your viewing experience? Do tell!


	4. You Will Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this is definitely my most well-received fic so far! And I haven't even gotten to the truly saucy bits... well, as saucy as T-rating gets.
> 
> Hope you like this one, too, it took me a few hours longer than anticipated...

Adam was curled up in bed with Dog at his side, sucking on sherbet lemons while reading the current New Aquarian Digest.*

 

*This volume featured a four-page spread on a woman who had been hit by lightning and could now talk to rabbits - but only if she wore her mother's dentures; an article on the colonies of leprechauns living in roughly every 47th British pumpkin; and a short feature titled "What To Do If Your Healing Crystals Develop Aura Rot".

 

Normally, he would've been fast asleep by this point at least, electric torch confiscated and Dog sent to stay in the garden, but the Youngs had planned to visit family in Swindon for the next week or so, and Adam, well...

Adam didn't really _like_ most of his relatives.

What he _did_ like was the Them, and Tadfield, and NOT going to smelly old Swindon.

So his family had simply, conveniently, forgotten about him when they'd piled in the car this morning, and left him behind.

It wasn't like he was going to get himself into trouble. No, Adam was going to behave himself as well as if they were still there, even do the dishes and take dog on walks and everything.

And, him being Adam and having all these really quite nifty powers, his family would only remember him once they were back, no harm done.*

 

*Mr. Young distractedly pointed out how strangely restful the small holiday was turning out to be four days in, but that was about it.

 

Adam considered himself a Big Boy, now that he was making efforts to educate himself in what the Government* was hiding from him - and, well, had found out he was sort of the son of Satan - and Big Boys were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.

 

*The New Aquarian tended to capitalise 'Government' the way a judgemental Mr. R. P. Tyler would capitalise 'Those Hoodlums', and Adam was slowly adapting the practice for himself.

 

And of their Dogs, naturally.

 

Adam popped another sweet into his mouth, and wondered whether or not going out with the Them tomorrow to check the pumpkins for leprechauns would qualify as 'getting into trouble.'

It probably did, the more he thought about it.

 

* * *

 

 

And then, something hit his window with a delicate >plink!<.

It probably said something about Adam's recent reading habits that his first thought was "The Government's solid infra-laser experiments!"*

 

*New Aquarian Digest, April '87, "Where Do Unexplained Noises Come From? The Answer May Surprise You!", Mr. B. A. Loney.

 

Then, because he was still a sensible little boy, and you couldn't interact with Wensleydale on a daily basis without at least _considering_ the logical explanation from time to time, "there's somebody outside."

Adam hushed Dog, and together they crept up to the window.

He hesitated a brief moment before peeking outside, heart thumping loud as a drum.*

 

*You could be the literal Antichrist and still be really scared of strange sounds at night, Adam believed.

 

"Oh." Adam smiled, and pushed the window up. "Hullo, Anathema!"

 

 

"Hey, Adam!" It was indeed Anathema standing outside, right in the middle of his mother's begonia patch. "Remember Newt?"

Adam did, vaguely. He regarded the rather pale and shaken-looking figure next to her with a critical glance, which Newt met warily, until they came to the conclusion that they had very little in common safe Anathema, but would probably have to like each other nonetheless to make her happy.*

 

*A common arrangement between a woman's male friends and her boyfriend, similar to the "I hate everything you stand for, but my kid loves you so let's go fishing" of the father-in-law.

 

So Adam said "Hullo, Newt," dutifully, and made sure to communicate an entire garden shed full of shovel talks through his angelic smile.

Anathema was as dear to him as the Them and Dog, being his mentor in all matters occult and a Very Nice Person who had praised his book besides, so Adam felt like it was his solemn responsibility to ensure her happiness in return.

And if he had to threaten people with grievous bodily harm* for that, then so be it.

 

*No relation.

 

"Hi." Newt nodded, and tried very hard to let an undercurrent of confidence and 'I'll never hurt her in a million years' seep into his bearing.

It didn't quite work. All it did was make him appear a little constipated.

 

"Right. Good." Anathema, oblivious to the silent exchange the feminist in her probably would've protested forcefully against, fidgeted with the Prophetic Tidbit. "Adam, look, sorry for waking you, but we... we..."

She frowned, and turned to Newt. "Wait... _why_ did we think a child could fix our memory issues, again?"

Newt opened his mouth... and closed it again.

"He... I'm _mostly sure_ that he was... involved?" He hesitated. "In the... the thing that we need to know about again. What was..."

"Yes! Yes, the... ah..."

Anathema blinked down at the Prophetic Tidbit she was still holding. Why were they here again?

She flipped the booklet open.

 

 _Though thy heade be as full of woole,_  
_Sayeth unto him thif:_  
_'Returne memmorey lost, Adam Younge!_  
_Thou hast been a moft wicked lad!_  
_Fondeft afection, ye Auntey Agnes._  
_P.S.: eat thee thine greenes.'_

 

Anathema, with generations of Professional Descendant obedience deeply ingrained in her, immediately relayed the message.

"Oh." Adam said. "I see."

He leaned forward slightly, settling his arms on the windowsill.

 

There is a certain way people sometimes respond to requests they don't quite want to fulfill. All hemming and hawing, must-I and can't-it-wait and I'd-really-rather-not, a refusal in anything but name.*

 

*Very much like Aziraphale when asked if that book over there is for sale. No? What about the one here? ...but it has a price sticker on it!

 

That is _not_ how Adam answered.

 

"Sure." He said, with the same nonchalance of one being asked for a cup of flour.

Anathema and Newt exchanged a puzzled glance.

"...really?"

"Just like that?"

"Well, yeah." Adam shrugged. "Way I see it, I can either have power over people's lives, or not respect their choices. S'not okay to do both."

And with that really very responsible statement, he waved his hands in the air, like he'd seen the wizards on the telly do, and they remembered.

 

It was neither a slow coming-together of new facts, nor a sudden flash of insight. They didn't gasp in surprise and ask a lot of startled questions about what they should've just remembered, like "what, you're the LITERAL ANTICHRIST!?" and such.

It was just knowing, and it felt as if it had always been there.

 

"Oh." Newt said.

"Huh." Anathema said, and immediately buried her nose in the Prophetic Tidbit again.

"You're welcome." Adam declared magnanimously, and moved to close the window and shoo Dog away from his sherbet lemons.

"The angel and the demon at the airfield!" Anathema said, and Adam froze. "That's what this is-!"

Adam pushed the window all the way open again.

"Aziraphale and Crowley?" He asked cautiously. "What about them?"

"Well, you see, _Agnes*_ sent..." Newt began with a huff.

 

*Newt pronounced 'Agnes' the same way the New Aquarian wrote 'Government', and Mr. Tyler said 'Hoodlums'.

He appreciated what she'd done for them in the past, of course, but he wasn't at all comfortable with her habit of sending them on dangerous escapades, and the fact that the old witch probably knew far too much about his sex life.

 

"Hush, no time. This prophecy says they're in danger." Anathema quickly interrupted the frustrated (and likely quite long-winded) ramble already rising up in Newt's chest. "We'll have to go to..."

She began to flip through the pages.

"London." Newt filled in for her. "Sergeant Shadwell has their addresses, I think?"

"London." Anathema agreed. "Thanks, Adam!"

And, without even a by-your-leave, they had ducked back into the darkness of night.

 

Adam stared after them, thoughtfully chewing on his lip.*

 

*The last sherbet lemon had already dissolved in his mouth.

 

"Right." He said, resolutely.

And then he began packing.

 

* * *

 

 

Adam was standing outside Pepper's family's house, Dog sitting beside him.

In his backpack, there were five dog treats, three New Aquarian magazines, and a silver spoon* from the Young's antique cutlery set inherited from his maternal grandmother.

 

*The NA insisted silver was the only material with any cleansing value in such situations, and Adam believed them in this, as he did in most everything.

 

He knocked.

 

If Adam had been anyone but himself, nobody would've answered. It was much too late at night, and even the less respectable Tadfield residents were peacefully snoring, and would never have heard a gentle knock at the front door.

But Adam was Adam, so, as impossible as it was, the door swung open to reveal a very tired woman in tie dye pyjamas.

"Hullo, Pepper's mum!" Adam beamed. Dog yapped at his side.

"Can Pepper come out to play? Right now?"

This, too, should never have worked. Ms. Mother-of-Pepper should've asked why Adam was out this late, whether his parents knew he was here, and what was he even thinking!?

But Adam was Adam, so ten minutes later, Pepper was shoved out the door with a little backpack of her own, looking equally as tired as her mother.

The first thing she did was punch him.*

 

*Even Adam being Adam was no match against Pepper being Pepper.

 

"That's for waking me up." She crossed her arms. That was excellent, it meant she couldn't surprise-punch him again. "What's all this about, Adam?"

"It's a _Rescue Mission."_ Adam said importantly.

Pepper immediately perked up. She'd saved enough space smugglers and magical bears and top secret agents during her time with the Them to be familiar with Rescue Missions.

"We'll get Brian and Wensleydale," Adam continued, with all the importance he could muster, "and I'll explain the rest when we're on our way to London."

Together, with Dog bounding ahead of them, they set out for adventure.

 

* * *

 

 

The Them (complete) reached Jasmine Cottage just in time* to convince Anathema and Newt to let them come along, pile into the backseat of the Wasabi, and promptly fall asleep for the rest of the ride.

 

*For those among our Esteemed Readers who wonder how they could possibly have accomplished this feat if Anathema had cycled back at the kind of breakneck pace that would've put Crowley's Bentley to shame, well...

Adam is Adam, remember?

 

Anathema, too, napped in the passenger seat, curled around the  
Prophetic Tidbit, and even Newt drifted off briefly around the M25 area.

Dick Turpin simply carried on, unfazed by the absence of input from the driver.

In its own words:

 

 _In the coal-dark night,_  
_Adam is Adam, and so_  
_I do drive safely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nutterian is easier this time, but what the Heaven, I'll still translate it!
> 
> And when you feel kinda dumb,  
> Just say:  
> 'Undo the mind-wipe, Adam!  
> Bad boy. _Bad_ Antichrist. Bad!  
> Love you, Auntie Agnes.  
> P.S.: eat your veggies.'
> 
> I adore each and every one of your comments, so feel free to leave more! ^-^


	5. Save Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer wait, but also longer chapter! Hooray!  
> And Aziraphale and Crowley finally appear again, though this is pretty much the last predominantly supporting-cast-centered chapter.  
> Enjoy!

Love, some people say, is accepting someone exactly the way they are.

Love, some other people say, is being ready to change for someone, even if they do accept you.

 

Shadwell, of Ex-Witchfinder-Sergeant fame, was claiming to be part of neither people.

Love was, in his opinion, a very Southern and pansy-ish emotion that wicked witches liked to exploit, nothing more.

Ridiculous. Unnecessary. Downright _dangerous._

That said, he found himself... not changing, no, but _adjusting,_  perhaps, for his Jezebel.

 

He'd stopped calling her Jezebel, for a start, or implying she was a loose woman in any form (which was the height of romance as far as Shadwell was concerned.)

This lasted nearly half a day, until she came up to him asking why he'd stopped, it had always made her feel pleasantly gooey inside, might he not wish to pick it up again?

Shadwell had complied, an old, grumpy part of him bemoaning the fact that he was growing somewhat attached to the kind of promiscuous non-witch* who used words like 'gooey'.

 

*Shadwell could personally attest to that now. She only had two, and what very nice two they were, at that.

 

Also 'fluffy', 'cuddly' and 'giddy'. His truly was a hard lot, and no mistake.

 

He also washed his coats more regularly, had gotten rid of most of the newspapers (leaving his flat strangely empty and prompting her to invite him over more often, "really, Mr. S, you all alone in here, what a dreary thought!"), cut down on smoking and no longer lived off of condensed milk exclusively.

He had even - mostly - ceased to swear in her presence, but that was less in deference to her (not that Shadwell had ever or was intending to ever defer to anyone, not ever, not even when the shameless hussy shamelessly charmed him with her shameless wiles, _honest)_ and more because she got a rather frightening glint* in her eye when she admonished him for it.

 

*Babylonian whores kept better torturing tools in their closets than the Witchfinder Army had ever seen, and Shadwell didn't feel up for that sort of thing... just yet.

 

They were still in the process of finding a suitable bungalow, but it was really only a matter of time now. The Rajits were already advertising for new tenants, and Shadwell was oddly looking forward to life beyond London.

It would be comfortable. Shadwell, for all that he had enjoyed the Witchfinder existence* found he might enjoy being comfortable even more.

 

*It didn't _quite_  qualify as 'having a life', now, did it?

 

And yet... on that morning, a quiet morning like any other, something tugged at his heartstrings, blood singing* with the half-forgotten excitement of Witchhunting.

 

*Shadwell's blood sang painfully flat, and couldn't hold an e-sharp for the life of it, but sing it did.

 

Something was afoot. Shadwell could _tell._

He shuffled over to the window, his Witchfinder-senses inexplicably tingling...

 

And then he remembered, as if he'd always known.

 

Shadwell promptly let out the foulest, most ghastly curse his imagination - limited in all aspects but this - could provide.*

 

*It had something to do with unripe tomatoes, but we refuse to divulge any more than that until all minors have vacated if not the planet, at least your current hemisphere of residence.

 

"Oooooo, Mr. S..." Madame Tracy breathed delightedly from her spot on the sofa.

"Ach, nat _nae,_ harlot!" Shadwell waved her off.

"Hm. Suit yourself, dear." Madame Tracy sniffed, buttoning her blouse back up.

"It's not tha' I doesna _want..._ " Shadwell groused. "Wumman, it's the _De'il_  at t'door!"

Madame Tracy blinked at him.

"Really?"

"Aye! Him, an' all o' t'witches and foul beasts wi' him!"

"Oh." She got up, carefully patting down her skirts.

"Well, I better go put on another kettle then."

Shadwell only grunted, picking up the Witchfinder pin from where it was stuck in Madame Tracy's kitten-shaped pincushion.

One could never be too careful.

 

* * *

 

 

The ensuing conversation in Madame Tracy's now quite crowded flat would take up quite some time, not least because Shadwell stubbornly refused to proceed before he had poked everybody with the pin.*

 

*Newt, Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale all said "ow".

Anathema also said "ow", but had the inexplicable feeling that, if she had already been old enough to develop arthritis, it would've miraculously been cured.

Dog yipped unhappily.

Adam didn't say a word, but Shadwell supposed that was only to be expected, and let it count.

 

Without getting too tied up in details: matters were explained, plans and preparations made, and events, eventually, set into motion.

 

* * *

 

 

Mr. Rajit of Rajit's Newspapers and Video Rental* was just in the middle of unpacking the new deliveries, when he saw Mr. Shadwell shuffling through the door.

 

*Oddly enough, the shop had had its name since long before Mr. Rajit bought it.

Years ago, wondering which profession he should take up, he had come across the store, and, accepting that the gods moved in mysterious ways, promptly purchased it, enrolled in an evening class on shopkeeping, and proceeded to become quite good at it.

He still considered it one of the best decisions, not least because he had met his Beryll in said evening class.

Some days, he still wondered what could've _possibly_  possessed the previous owner - a Mr. Peter Device - to name his shop 'Rajit's'.

Mysterious ways and all that, he supposed.

 

"Good day, Mr. Shadwell!" Mr. Rajit smiled pleasantly. "Condensed milk and biscuits? Gotten in a new Divination Daily, if Madame..."

"Nae, none o' tha'." Mr. Shadwell peered at him with intense distrust. Mr. Rajit simply carried on smiling. "Newspapers, laddie! As many as have ye."

"Of course." Mr. Rajit hurried to comply. If Mr. Shadwell really was back on the newspapers again, he and Beryll might be able to send little Mina to the _better_  boarding school, after all!*

 

*It was true that he had initially given not-too-old newspapers to "the Noble Cause", as Shadwell put it, for free... until a Mr. Fell, claiming to be Shadwell's employer, had gotten wind of this, and promptly offered to reimburse Mr. Rajit whenever a new batch was required.

He had been contemplating a polite refusal, until Beryll had given him a very serious look and asked if he'd gone completely mad.

Mr. Rajit had carefully considered this, come to the conclusion that he hadn't yet, and taken the money.

 

Mr. Shadwell muttered something vaguely racist and tragically misinformed about Indians and voodoo as he tottered out of the store, the heap of newspapers cradled in his arms.

Mr. Rajit considered explaining the difference between India and Bangladesh to him - _again_  - but decided it wasn't really worth it.

Instead, he smiled and wished Mr. Shadwell a pleasant weekend, getting a nearly-amicable grunt in return.

Mr. Rajit took this as proof that Madame Tracy was indeed very good for Mr. Shadwell, and continued unpacking the newest batch of positively toe-curling top-shelf pornography.

 

(There was also a box of a strange little magazine named New Aquarian Digest that Mr. Rajit was quite sure he hadn't ordered.

Always adaptable, he stuck it with the ones about keeping tropical fish, and promptly forgot about them.)

 

* * *

 

 

Madame Tracy watched Shadwell struggle with her sewing scissors and the fourth page of the Times _,_  grumbling up a storm.

"Should I help, Mr. S.?" She asked tentatively.

"Ach, nevah!" Shadwell snapped. "'Tis nah wuuman's work! Get ye gone, hoor!"

"Of course, Mr. S." Madame Tracy said kindly.

Shadwell was rather familiar with that particular tone of hers, she used it quite often around him. It was strangely indulgent, very similar to the way you told a preschooler that "oh, yes, _naturally_  you're much better at spelling than me", even though the idiot child had just managed to put a 'k' in phenomenomenon.*

 

*Where, was anyone's guess.

 

Grumbling a little louder - mostly to fight down a wave of quite irrational fondness - he returned to page four, cutting out an article on a street robbery, even though it was likely irrelevant.

No witches or unexplainable phenomenatrices at all, not in any of the newspapers he'd sifted through so far.

Not even in the Daily Mirror!

 

* * *

 

 

Had it ever occured to Aziraphale to install an electronic security system* rather than trust in locksmiths and the kindness of your fellow man (and, failing that, similar tactics as the ones he employed when pressed to sell the store by bulky men in suits), Newt probably would've managed to put the bookstore into complete lockdown, and likely taken out London's telephone network in the bargain.

 

*Crowley had subtly suggested it on occasion, but proper occurrence on the angel's side had yet to, well, occur, to his infinite frustration.

 

In the absence of such, however, it still took Newt a lot of fumbling, but Shadwell's lockpicking lessons were serviceable enough to grant him entry after barely half an hour of crouching in front of the back entrance and inventing colourful new insults directed at people in the locksmithing profession.*

 

*"Your mother's private parts are as difficult to access as a three-cylinder double-bolt titanium lock... NOT!", to give an example. Nobody ever said they were _good_  insults.

 

Newt heaved a relieved sigh, joints creaking as he straightened up - this burglary business really was quite hard on the knees - and let himself in.

The bookstore was, in short, quiet, cramped, and infused with a distinctly _hostile_  air.

But, strangely, it wasn't forces-of-evil hostile. It was more along the lines of glaring-at-someone-encroaching-on-your-personal-space hostile, and did nothing more than make one vaguely uncomfortable and more likely to exit without making a purchase.

Newt double- and triple-checked, but failed to come to any other result than "the most dangerous thing in this shop is that stack of slightly precariously-balanced books".

He dutifully propped up the wobbly bits of the stack with a couple of what he believed to be cheap old children's books*, because it never hurt to be safe, and then got ready to leave.

 

*Ironically, 'The Froghopper Gang' and 'Aliens, UFOs and Space Cadets, Oh My!' were, thanks to Adam, infinitely more valuable than anything else Newt had ever laid hands on, _including_  Agnes's Prophecies and that one time he'd tripped in the National Gallery.

 

Halfway out the door, it occured to him that Shadwell had never quite explained how to _lock_  them again.

Hoping fervently that angels tended towards the scatterbrained*, he simply closed it behind him, and slunk off while trying very hard to give the impression that he hadn't just committed a felony.

 

*Angels, as a whole, didn't. Aziraphale, however, did, so that was quite alright, even if Crowley would read him the riot act later. Leaving your shop unlocked _in Soho,_  HONESTLY, angel!

 

This, too, he didn't quite manage.

Luckily, passing bobbies took one look at him and decided he wasn't cut out to be a proper criminal at all, meaning the intense guilt he was radiating was likely a personal matter, of no concern to the force.

Appearances and all that, eh?

 

* * *

 

 

Anathema frowned down at the improvised theodolite before her.

Anything powerful enough to threaten beings of angelic stock simply _had_  to have some effect on the ley lines in the area. Had to!

But aside from the nexus points that were Aziraphale and Crowley themselves, and the minor vortex around Adam, there were no anomalies to speak of. Not even a single crooked line.

The universe seemed almost uncannily balanced, and it made _no sense whatsoever._

Anathema glared at the Prophetic Tidbit* as if it was to blame for everything that annoyed her.

 

*Opened onto _"keepeth thy diftance off them; speake not off thif prophecey; or alle shall be for waste. Taketh subtletey as thy watcheword!"_

 

In a way, it was.

 

* * *

 

 

Adam was trying so very, _very_  hard to pretend not to be bored.

He'd thought this would be exciting. An adventure.

They all had.

When Shadwell had given them lessons in sneaking and hand-to-hand combat* this morning, all of the Them had been fully convinced they would have to fight their way out of at least two assaults and maybe a daylight robbery, too.

 

*Anything from how to throw a proper punch to putting people in a headlock, the latter of which had proven quite ineffective until Pepper revealed an uncanny talent for kicking people's legs where it hurt, bringing their necks down to a more practical height.

 

Nothing of the sort had happened. They'd had a bit of fun keeping out of Their Targets' sights on the way over from the bookstore, but now they had been hiding in the same stupid bushes for nearly an hour, and it was getting tedious.*

 

*The Them were clearly not quite as good at pacing themselves in their lurking as demons were.

 

Adam, being their leader and therefore responsible for putting up a front of... well, responsibility, was still crouched in the undergrowth as per Shadwell's instructions, silver spoon in a white-knuckled grip, but the others weren't taking it nearly as seriously anymore.

Pepper had climbed a nearby tree and was currently dangling upside-down from a branch, Brian was playing fetch with Dog, and Wensleydale was reading the New Aquarian.*

 

*Well, mostly he was comparing it to _Wonders of Nature and Science_  and found it sorely lacking. It didn't even have any proper statistics.

 

 

And ahead of them, Aziraphale and Crowley were standing near the waterfront, discussing 19th century poets.

Well, _Aziraphale_ wa _s_  talking about poetry, _Crowley_  was trying to start a civil war among the ducks by strategically throwing bread at only a carefully-chosen subset, but six of one and half a dozen of the other and all that.

Adam gave up pretending, and admitted to himself that he was _painfully_  bored.

They weren't saying anything along the lines of "oh, and also, I think I'm in mortal danger", and neither was any mortal danger popping up from among the water lilies.

It all felt rather pointless.

Determined to get _somewhere_  at least, Adam carefully pointed his spoon at Crowley.

"And, angel, any mortal danger I should be aware of?" Crowley's voice said, without consulting any other part of Crowley at all.

"What?" Aziraphale startled in the middle of waxing poetically about Keats. "Of course not, dear boy! What's brought this on?"

"Brought what on?" Crowley cocked his head in mild confusion.

"All this talk of mortal danger! Downstairs isn't... _up to_  something, are they?"

"No? Not that I know of. All perfectly calm. And _who_  was talking of mortal danger in the first place?"

Adam frowned as they continued to bicker goodnaturedly over who had said what. Neither of them had been lying; or, at least, if they had been, hadn't been aware of it.

Just to make entirely sure, he reached out, and did something that was roughly the occult equivalent of poking a strange heap with a stick to see if anything jumped out at you.

 

Nothing.

No deep-seated guilt, no repressed memories, no uncertain anxiety.

Aziraphale and Crowley were perfectly content.*

 

*Well, except the undercurrent of desperate, tender longing, but Adam knew full well that _that_  had been around since the dawn of time, and therefore ignored it.

 

Heaving a deep sigh, he pushed himself up from the ground, and clambered up the same tree as Pepper.

"Something finally happening?" She asked eagerly, clearly rearing to go and bite some people.

"No." Adam flopped down on a branch. "Nuthin'."

Brian and Wensleydale, as they always tended to do when Adam was talking, drew closer towards them, Dog setting off after a squirrel through the undergrowth.

"Can't we go then?" Brian asked.

"No." Adam answered coldly, and normally, that would be the end of it. The Them knew quite well that Adam's 'no' was the 'no' to end all 'no's.

In this case, however, they were so bored out of their minds that they were still chancing it.

"Why?" Wensleydale asked, only a little cautious.

"Yeah, why?" Pepper also asked, much less cautious. "They're not even spies or anything. They're just _adults._  Really boring adults."

"They're more than that. They're also an angel and a demon. AND my godparents." Adam retorted sharply.*

 

*He couldn't really argue with the boring point.

 

"Really?" Brian blinked. "Doesn't godparents usually mean a godmother and a godfather? I have one of each."

"Well, _I_  have two godfathers!" Adam crossed his arms defensively. "Nuthin' wrong with that, is there?"

The Them thought about that, and came to the same conclusion any reasonable person eventually reached:

Nothing wrong with that whatsoever, really.

"Well, if they're your godfathers..." Pepper said slowly. "Then we have to stay of course. Family's got to look out for each other, right?"

"Absolutely!" Wensleydale agreed.

"Jus' like we do for each other." Brian added.

Adam beamed.

 

It still continued to be painfully boring, of course.

But they were all bored together, and that really made all the difference.

 

* * *

 

 

"...an' then they had sushi an' then they both went back to their homes an' Mr. Crowley yelled at his plants an' Mr. Azra- Zir-"

Wensleydale paused the recital of his report.

"Mr. Aziraphale went and did his taxes on the computer." He concluded.

"Nothing special happened." Brian added.

"At _all._ " Pepper added a great deal more forcefully.

Glances were exchanged.

The terrible threat they all had expected to surface was still conspicuously absent, nothing to be found in newspapers, ley lines, the bookshop, or Aziraphale and Crowley's immediate surroundings; and the Prophetic Tidbit was not proving very helpful at all.

It wasn't looking good for the Rescue Mission, everyone silently agreed.

"How many nipples did they have?" Shadwell asked in a desperate last attempt.

"...what?" Wensleydale startled.

"None." Adam answered for him, absentmindedly throwing the silver spoon for Dog to fetch. "They're an angel an' a demon. Their true forms don't have any."

Shadwell checked the Witchfinders' Manual, but it was shamefully devoid of informations about entirely nipple-less entities.*

 

*It had any other number from 1 to 26 (except 14) but not zero, a grievous oversight by its authors, in Shadwell's opinion.

 

"Well. Tha's tha', then." He murmured dejectedly.

"We can't give up!" Anathema exclaimed. _"They_  didn't give up at the airfield, so _we_  mustn't, either!"

Solemn nods all around.

 

Except for Adam.

 

"Well, see, it's like this..." He began, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. "I can't tell what's wrong, but I should. If _anything_  is wrong, I _should_  know, but I _don't,_  and that means that... that means..."

Adam looked pale and tired and uncertain, not unlike that day at the airfield, standing between Beelzebub and the Metatron.

"Whatever Agnes is warning us about... it has to be comin' from really High Up for me not to know. Or Far Down. Either."

Adam grimaced.

"So, way I see it, there's two what could be directly behind this: m-my _other_  dad, and, uh... my... grandparent...?"

"Ye mean..." Shadwell pointed a tremulous finger skywards.*

 

*Well, water-stain-on-the-ceiling-wards, but close enough.

 

Adam nodded, biting his lip.

"Jehosaphat." Shadwell whispered shakily.

(He would've liked to reach for his Jezebel, the way Private Pulsifer and The Witch were reaching out to each other, but she was in the kitchen making more tea, so he was left to hold on tightly to his chair.)

"An'... an' I just don't know..." Adam took a deep breath, pulling Dog into his lap and hugging him. "If we should... if _you_  should be involved. In that."

"Don't be dumb. 'Course we should." Pepper said immediately.

"But it's _dangerous,_  Pep!" Adam burst out.

"Yeah, well, so was fighting those weird bikers." Pepper crossed her arms. "They're your godfathers, Adam. We're helping you protect them, promise."

The remaining Them both nodded fiercely, as did Anathema and, more hesitantly, Newt and Shadwell.

It was quite touching, all in all, albeit also quite reckless and a hint stupid.

 

"Oh, what are we agreeing to?" Madame Tracy shuffled into the room, topping up Shadwell's cup of sweet tea.

"Saving Adam's godfathers, no matter _who_  might be out for their blood!" Brian informed her enthusiastically. It was turning out to be a _Heroic_  rescue mission, and Brian was all for that, even if the thought of Adam's Other Dad utterly terrified him.

"That's nice, dearie." Madame Tracy ruffled his hair. "Though I did mean to talk to you about that..."

"Pah!" Shadwell scoffed, but quietly.

"I was only wondering, are you _certain_  there's someone meaning them harm?"

 

An incredulous silence.

 

"Yes, we are." Anathema said slowly. "Agnes prophesied it."

"Well, these old prophecies..." Madame Tracy tutted dismissively. "They're never _entirely_  accurate, are they?"

 _"This one_  is!" Anathema snapped, protectively cradling the Prophetic Tidbit to her chest.

"And nice, too." Newt added helpfully.

"Only, Mr. Aziraphale, little old dear that he is, did always strike me as rather capable of looking out for himself.*" Madame Tracy continued thoughtfully.

 

*Madame Tracy rather flattered herself that she had quite a good grasp on all things Aziraphale, and had been a little insulted she'd not yet been requested to share her quite literally _insider_  knowledge.

 

"And Mr. Crowley..." She hesitated.

"Mr. Crowley has Mr. Aziraphale looking out for him." She concluded, nodding to herself.* "And you, of course, Adam darling. I really can't think-"

 

*Her grasp on Crowley, on the other hand, was heavily influenced by Aziraphale's panicked worrywart thoughts running through her head on the way to Tadfield, and therefore a little patronising.

 

"Literal _Satan_  or _God_  might be after them!" Anathema argued heatedly.

"Oh, wouldn't _they_  have better things to do?" Madame Tracy tittered. "Really, dears, I do think you're much too worried over nothing. Those two have managed quite well for who-knows-how-long, their lives don't need saving!"

She paused, briefly contemplative.

"Their _love live,_  now, that's another matter.* All that miserable pining for each other... Sure you haven't misread that prophecy, dearie?"

 

*Had no children be present, Madame Tracy might've suggested that a good, _hard_ shag would be quite beneficial, and was, in fact, LONG overdue.

 

 _"Quite_  sure." Anathema bit out. "Their lives are in horrible, terrible danger that only we can save them from."

She held up the Prophetic Tidbit. "It says so. Right here."

Madame Tracy peered at the page, and understanding dawned visibly on her face.

"Dearie, as a woman of, well, _considerable experience,_  I really don't think that's what 'the lyttle Deathe' means in this context..." She stated dryly.

 

The penny tethered on the edge, caught its balance, wavered for a moment, lost it again, and finally, _finally_  dropped.

 

"Huh." Anathema squinted. Flipped the page. Read another bit. "....huh."

"Ach, course ye'd think that, painted harlot." Shadwell grumbled, but it was a tender kind of grumble. "Can't say I dinna' see it coming thoo. Southern pansies, the both o' them."

"What's she mean?" Pepper asked, frowning.

"Er." Newt scratched his head. "Madame Tracy thinks Aziraphale and Crowley want to... well... _hug and kiss_  each other. Or at least that's what she thinks Agnes is trying to tell us, instead of there being an actual threat that-"

"Well, yeah." Adam shrugged. "Ob'visly. And to be married, too, like mum and dad. Is that really all it is?"

"...you knew?" Anathema glanced up from the Prophetic Tidbit, which... really made a lot more sense from this new point of view.

Huh.

"Yes? Didn't you?" He seemed genuinely confused as to why this was considered news at all, and unsure whether he should still be worried about, er, _family visits._  "They _really_  love each other. More than I love Dog. More than I love ice cream!"

The Them nodded sagely. That was quite a lot of love, they knew.

"...huuuuuuh." Newt muttered slowly.

 

* * *

 

 

Somewhere in her little cottage, over 300 years ago, a witch was laughing at the lot of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penny dropped!
> 
> Nutterian translation: don't get close to them, don't talk to them, don't even LOOK at them, it'd wreck all the dramatic tension. And for Someone's sake, DO try to be subtle _for once in your lives,_ yes?
> 
> Once more, my undying gratitude to everyone who commented, you consistently make my day! <3


	6. Good Old-fashioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter for all of you lazing around on a Sunday afternoon...  
> And - finally! - it predominantly features the main couple!  
> ....after a bit of introduction with the Them.  
> Enjoy! ;)

They had gotten through re-interpreting exactly _one_  page of the Prophetic Tidbit before the adults unanimously agreed that, under this new light, it was turning out to be _entirely_  unsuitable for the ears of children.*

 

*In fact, the involvement of Newt was highly debated, as well, seeing as he didn't even enjoy the benefits of not quite understanding what certain words meant.

 

Pepper had geared up for a good protesting, perhaps even combined with a scuffle or two, but Adam had shrugged and said it was fine, and no member of the Them ever went against Adam's word for anything less than the literal Apocalypse.

They were given a handful of coins each, firmly instructed to stay within shouting distance of Mr. Rajit's, preferably in the store itself, and that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

"And what now?" Wensleydale asked, contemplatively weighing a curlywurly and a pack of jelly babies in each hand with the intense focus he only awarded to the most vital of decisions. "Considering there's not much we can _do_  about it if Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley like each other, but won't tell... do we just go home?"

"I don't wanna though." Brian said, peering through the frosted glass of the freezer. "Never been to London before, and it hasn't been nearly as exciting as my nan has said, yet.*"

 

*Brian's nan was under the impression that London was a Den of Iniquity, a Cesspool of Sin, with Lowlifes and Peculiar Folk frolicking at every corner, and wasn't shy to impart this upon the young and impressionable during family gatherings.

By doing so, she had, quite inadvertently, inspired nearly three generations of Brian's family to be strangely fascinated with all things London, if just to see what all the fuss was about.

 

"Why are they being so stupid about it, anyway?" Pepper voiced the questions all of the Them had been contemplating, frustratedly crunching on a packet of crisps.

"It _is_  pretty peculiar." Wensleydale agreed, settling on the jelly babies. "People love each other, an' then they kiss, an' then they get married, an' then have children. Why don't they get on with that?"

 

(It may be worth mentioning at this point that the Them's understanding of love was fueled solely by what they'd seen of their parents, and the occasional romantic B plot in a sci-fi movie, which didn't exactly provide a nuanced outlook on the many complicated problems that could arise during the quest for true love.

To put it bluntly, if Shakespeare had handed the writing of _Romeo and Juliet_ over to the Them, it would've been much shorter, featured an alien invasion, and would've seen Captainess Juliet - Pepper's influence - swoon for, kiss, and marry Deputy Captain Romeo in the last two minutes after all the actually exciting bits were done.)

 

Adam, having already spent all his money on the newest New Aquarian, which Mr. Rajit miraculously stocked, contemplated this.

"Well, s'not easy for them." He scratched behind Dog's wonky ear, a little lost in thought. "Me and Pepper, we know we're gonna get married when we're grown up, right?"

"And me and Wensley." Brian added enthusiastically.

"Why would _we_  get married?" Wensleydale frowned.

"Well, cos Pepper scares me, and Adam jus' said he wants to marry her anyway, so it's you and me left."

"We can marry someone who's not in the Them, you know." Wensley argued primly.

"Do _you_  wanna get married to someone from the Johnsonites, Wensley?"

"Oh. Hm." Wensleydale clearly didn't. "No, I suppose not."

"Hah." Brian crossed his arms smugly. "See, that's why you and me gotta get married!"*

 

*Whether or not they did is quite probably chronicled in the continued prophecies of Agnes Nutter...

But they were burned, so we shall never know.

 

"Anyway," Adam cut in, "we know _we're_  gonna marry because we'll be super old, like, at least sixteen, and then it's time for it. But they're immortal, right? So they just keep waiting because they think there's no rush, not like us humans.* They keep putting it off."

 

*Adam might've said "you humans" here. He chose not to.

 

"That's sad." Pepper said matter-of-factly. They all nodded in solemn agreement.

"It is." Adam hopped up onto the freezer and struck an important pose.* "So we fix it! Simple."

 

*Mr. Rajit considered telling him off, but the freezer had proved itself sturdy enough to hold anything up to three children and a medium-sized cat, and they were paying customers, after all.

 

The Them all stood to attention, even Dog. This, _this_  was what they'd come here for!

"This is still a Rescue Mission!" Adam declared firmly, puffing his chest out. "Just in a different way. We're rescuing them from being sad and alone!"

The Them cheered, and Dog barked excitedly.

 

"...how?" Wensleydale asked, once the excitement had abated slightly.

Adam paused. He hadn't really gotten that far.

"We'll think of something." He finally said, confidently. "We will!"

Silently, they all hoped the grownups would figure it out for them, and they'd just help with carrying out the actual plan.

They were good at spies and rescues and adventures, but love was, for now, a closed book to them.

 

Somewhere deep down, they knew it was the best book in all of existence, and both yearned for and dreaded the day it would finally open.

But that was far, far in the future, and, for now, they contented themselves with sweets and crisps and magazines they had no intention of buying.

 

In other words, they enjoyed childhood for as long as it was still going to last.

 

* * *

 

 

The Prophetic Tidbit turned out to be not technically filled with prophecies, after all.

The contents, after the introductory instructions, were more of a combination of potential scenarios, plans, suggestions, ranging from the almost-reasonable (" _and the Angel shall receife Hallmarke's greet of Valentine, and ye signeth it witth 'Crowley', though he hath not layd hand on it_ ") to the hopelessly-outdated-never-going-to-work (" _taketh ye twoscore goats, and offere thif to the Heavenley Hoft in exechange for vows of weddinge from Asirafel_ "), with the occasional bit of cryptic advice thrown in.*

 

*It was all _somewhat_  prophetic, of course, but which of the plans might actually be the one to succeed was vague at best, and impossible to tell at worst.

 

The one they eventually agreed to try went as follows:

  
_They dineth at the Ritfe, in the ninth houre;_

_And one payeth, and one tasteth Dionysus' boone._

_\- Thif, giveth strengthe, so that theyr heade shall swimme mightily and theyr tongue be well loose -_

_Rideth bakk in stylle, room of reste a good suit_

_And taketh thee back to thine and comme and gette it._

_\- If Fortune smileth, succef ye shall obferve through crowne glass! -_

 

* * *

 

 

Let us turn our attention to Aziraphale and Crowley, then.

 

They really _were_  seeing disproportionately much of each other, it suddenly occured to Crowley, right in the middle of hissing warningly at Aziraphale.

(He had been trying to sneak spoonfuls of Crowley's chocolate mousse for the past five minutes, and satanblessit, if he wanted another portion, he should just _get_  another one!)

Feeding the ducks in the morning, having sushi for lunch*, tending to their own business for a few hours, and then meeting up again for dinner at the Ritz.

 

*The Japanese chef kept using the word 'dōseiai-sha' around them, and Aziraphale had so far refused to translate it for Crowley. It was quite vexing.

 

There were probably plenty of married couples that saw less of each other, Crowley thought, and then instantly pulled the emergency brake on that thought, jumped out the cerebral window and mentally ran as far away from it as possible.

In such a distraught state, he obviously couldn't quite fend off Aziraphale's pleading (and quietly accusing) stare, so he gave up and pushed the chocolate mousse over to him.

"Thank you, my dear, that's ever so kind of you!" Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley was quite glad for his sunglasses taking the brunt of that radiant smile.

For appearance's sake, he grumbled something about "say it louder, why don't you, I think there's a condemned soul in the Seventh Circle of Hell that hasn't quite heard you yet", but his heart quite clearly wasn't in it.*

 

*In fact, it resided where it always did while he was in Aziraphale's company: quite firmly lodged in his throat, pitter-pattering excitedly and threatening to just jump out altogether, baring itself for all the world - and Aziraphale especially - to see and then go "oh, in love, is he?" while nodding knowingly.

(Luckily, Crowley was fairly adept at swallowing it back down on such occasions. It was a snake thing.)

 

Their waiter came sidling up to them just as Aziraphale had finished the chocolate mousse and stared at the empty bowl in a way that suggested he was seriously considering licking it clean if that wasn't so singularly undignified.

Crowley gritted his teeth, firmly reminding himself never to use the concepts 'Aziraphale' and 'licking' in the same thought ever again.

"I'll take the bill." He offered through slightly clenched teeth. "Finish your wine before we go."

"Speaking of wine..." The waiter produced a bottle from behind his back. "For you to take home, gentlemen. Compliments of the house."

"Oh!" Aziraphale immediately inspected the label. _"'Dionysus's Boon'._  Excellent vintage!"

Crowley raised one eyebrow. "Any particular reason for this?"

The waiter's eyes glazed over for less than a second before he answered.

"Merely showing our appreciation for your continued patronage, sirs." He smiled. "Besides, we're certain there's at least _one_  anniversary of yours we have neglected to honour since you began visiting."

Aziraphale and Crowley both stared at him.

The waiter, completely unfazed, took the offered bills from Crowley's limp hand. "Have a good night, gentlemen, and do enjoy the wine!" He said, and then he was gone.

By silent agreement, Aziraphale and Crowley decided to not even mention this misconception on the Ritz's part, not EVER, and take the Bentley to the bookshop, where they might share the bottle.

It was no saloon, of course, but the back room would still do quite nicely.

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale popped open the cork, and filled both their glasses.

"Cheers." Crowley raised his, grinning. "To... what should we toast to, angel?"

Aziraphale thought briefly.

"There not being a prohibition?" He finally suggested.

"So... to alcohol, basically?"

"If that is how you would prefer to phrase it... to alcohol."

They clinked glasses, and both took a generous sip.

Crowley had to admit that it was indeed a most excellent vintage, if a hint potent.

"Talking of prohibition... remember old Cromwell?" He asked. "Wasn't too hot on the drinking and revelry either, was he?"

"Ah, yes, Oliver." Aziraphale gazed into the air, somewhat-fondly reminiscing. "Puritans, remind me again?"

"Yours, I'm afraid." Crowley shrugged. Puritans were Heaven's equivalent to Satanists. Unsettlingly enthusiastic, and more than a bit embarrassing at the end of the day. "And very vocal about that, too."

He took another sip, the pleasant buzz of mild intoxication already setting in.

"Right, right." Aziraphale suddenly let out something awkwardly lodged between a giggle, a chuckle and a snort that should not be half as endearing as it ended up being. "That does remind me, I don't believe I've ever told you of the time I was nearly tried for a witch. Have I?"

"You? Really!?" Crowley laughed delightedly. "The Puritans suspected a _literal angel!?"_

"Well, I did try to explain that I was, in fact, rather more holy than that, but he simply wouldn't listen. One of the American chappies, you know." Aziraphale swirled his wine glass absentmindedly. "Accused me of, oh, what was it, foul temptations, wicked works of witchcraft* - very alliterative, rather liked that - and... er..."

 

*In defence of the Unnamed American Puritan, Aziraphale had been in the process of spreading dissent amongst the community at that point, taking over for Crowley, who, by the terms of the Arrangement, was in turn healing the sick in the Netherlands for him.

 

Aziraphale's face acquired a flush that had nothing whatsoever to do with inebriation, and he looked away.

"Aaaaand?" Crowley prompted. Oh, this was going to be a good one, he could tell.

"And... _fornication with a male demon."_ Aziraphale said very quickly, and then promptly gulped down the rest of his wine.

"No!" Crowley croaked.

"Oh yes." Aziraphale held out his glass, and Crowley fumbled to refill it with curiously shaky fingers. "Quite insistent about it, too."

"And what..." Crowley swallowed hard. "What did you say?"

"That it was out of the q-question, of course!" Aziraphale studiously refused to as much as look at him, tongue tied up both by embarrassment and the alcohol.

"Out of the question. Yeah. 'Course. Obviously." Crowley's voice came out a bit strangled, since the heart in his throat had just taken a nosedive straight through his entire digestive system and all the way down to the pit of his stomach, where it continued to break up into painful little shards.

"Did he listen?" Crowley asked, after he'd emptied his own glass for pain-numbing purposes.

"No." Aziraphale hiccuped miserably. "J-just continued describing the foti- the fonina-"

He took a deep breath.

"The sex. In frankly nauseating detail."

Aziraphale grimaced. "He also had a very, ah, backwards idea of demonic atano- anata- bits. And the m-mechanics of... how it's done."

"How d'you know?" Crowley hissed. Aziraphale couldn't have knowledge of demonic sexual organs! He _couldn't._  Crowley would _gut_  any demon who as much as...

"Oh, m'assuming, 'course." Aziraphale slurred, cheerfully oblivious to Crowley's entire being screaming bloody murder. "Trust me, t'wasn't... didn't think you'd... no, no. Was all..."

He wrinkled his nose and made a few disjointed gestures that really had no business in signifying any kind of sex organ or act.

"Ah. Puritans." Crowley nodded knowingly, bloodlust appeased.*

 

*Other lust? Not so much.

 

"Never knew where to put it, eh?"

"Or what!" Aziraphale agreed, nodding so vehemently droplets of wine splashed onto the table... or at least they would've if they hadn't changed their minds mid-air and returned to his glass.

"S'why there's no Puritans now." Crowley added sagely. "Couldn't figure out... which bits where, y'know. No kids, died out. Poof."

"Really?" Aziraphale tried to quirk an eyebrow, but the expression sort of got lost halfway across his face and only made him appear as if he was just about to sneeze.

"Swear to... to Someone, yeah. God's own truth, if God went in for that sorta thing." Crowley insisted. "No sex ed, thought about demons fonnicatin' all the time 'nstead of doing it. Poof!"

"Poof..." Aziraphale repeated thoughtfully, looking at Crowley in a strange way, an intense way, a way not unlike the way he looked at sushi and angel cake and mediocre wines that spontaneously decided to be extremely nice wines the moment they were placed in front of him.

 

Crowley didn't know what to do with that look at all.

 

"Wine's pretty... pretty strong." He muttered instead of acknowledging it in any way, manner, or form, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Ooh, yes, rather." Aziraphale blinked, and the look was gone. "Think I'll... I'll up. Sober. Sober up. Jus' a bit. Won't be able to have a, a, reeshonable conversashun like this."

Crowley would've argued that that would imply they were intending to have reasonable conversation in the first place, but the little part of his brain not yet pickled in ethanol admitted that Aziraphale had a point.

He nodded weakly, gathered himself, ready to purge the alcohol from his bloodstream...

And found he didn't quite manage.

That wasn't too unusual. Sometimes, when one was really, truly pissed, one couldn't quite find the wherewithal to make it not so.

Aziraphale was frowning intensely beside him.

"S'not really... hm." He hiccuped, and seemed quite displeased with himself for doing so. "Could you..."

"'Fraid not, angel." Crowley spread his hands. "Too drunk. More wine?"

Aziraphale nodded jerkily, and refills were had all around. They were quite sloshed already, with no way out, might as well go the extra mile.

 

* * *

 

 

They eventually migrated to the sofa, near-empty bottle with them, sprawled over the cushions and rambling drunkenly* about anything that came to mind.

 

*The aforementioned extra mile had long since been passed, and they were heading steadily towards the extra lightyear.

 

"I... I've wondered. Y'know, as one does, when one has time and le... les..." Aziraphale was currently babbling vaguely.

"Leissssure?" Crowley gave sobering up another valiant try, but ultimately slumped back into being comfortably drunk enough to not care.

"Yes! Crowley, Crowley." Aziraphale fixed him with the unfocused intensity of the highly inebriated.

(Crowley did something similar to Aziraphale's lips, only occasionally glancing up into his eyes. Thank Someone for sunglasses.)

"My de-" He hiccuped. "My dear Crowley. There was no app... alpopa... acolyp... the world didn't end."

"Yup." Crowley took another sip of the really _uncannily_ strong wine, heavily leaning into Aziraphale's side and simply enjoying the proximity.*

 

*A good indicator of how spectacularly pissed he was. Normally, Crowley was more cautious with the boundaries he'd set himself.

 

"An' it won't. It won't!" The angel giggled drunkenly. "For a while. And that's what I've been w-wondering, dear boy. When they're going to start a-hic!-gain."

Crowley thought. "F'hdmuhwe..."

He took a deep breath. Speaking, Crowley, it used to be your forte, you can manage a simple word or two. "If I had my way: not ever."

"Not ever!?" Aziraphale blinked down at him thoughtfully. At some point, Crowley had slid down his side to now have his head in his lap, and found the situation too enjoyable - and himself too drunk - to correct his posture.

"Yup!" Crowley popped the p particularly pointedly. "M'not saying it _actually_  won't, but a demon can dream, eh?"

"Then... then wha' would _we_  be doing? Here on earth? Ge- ge- generally?"

Crowley considered that.

"This." He finally said.

He reached up and gently pushed Aziraphale's crooked reading glasses back up his nose. "Jus' this. Forever."

The moment stretched on between them.

 

* * *

 

 

(In the alley behind Aziraphale's bookstore, a handful of figures were crowded around the tiny back window, watching with bated breath.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Forever. 'S a lovely thought." Aziraphale whispered softly, returning the courtesy with a wayward strand of Crowley's hair.

And then he smirked in a manner he would steadfastly deny was mischievous, and he hadn't been smirking in the first place _anyway,_  because angels never did anything but smile beatifically.

"T'rrific idea, being this drunk all the time!"

Crowley couldn't help himself, he began cackling helplessly. "That's... s'not what I..." He spluttered. "You... oh, angel, I'd nearly forgotten wha' a blessed bastard you can be!"

Aziraphale's laughter in response was the last foggy scrap of memory Crowley had of that night. Likely, they had spent the rest of it philosophising, arguing, joking, _not kissing, never kissing,_  and ultimately fallen asleep* in the slightly embarrassing cuddle heap they'd woken up in.

 

*Well, Crowley fell asleep. Aziraphale probably just went into a vaguely catatonic state of metabolising alcohol out of his system, since he had yet to take to the whole sleeping business.

 

* * *

 

 

(As the frustrated gaggle of spectators might've told him, he was quite correct in those assumptions.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close. SO close. Buuuut not quite!
> 
> Translations:  
> (Nutterian)  
> \- "send Aziraphale a Valentine's Day Hallmark card under Crowley's name"  
> \- "offer the Heavenly Host forty goats for Aziraphale's hand in marriage"  
> \- see lyrics of Queen's "Good Old-fashioned Lover Boy", interspersed with "spike the wine to get them proper drunk and chatty" and "if all goes well, you'll be able to watch them hook up through the window!" ('Crown glass' is an outdated type of window. Who knew? I certainly didn't prior to today!)  
> (Japanese)  
> \- apparently means gay...? If not, please do correct me!
> 
> Hope you liked the two of them finally getting a bit lovey-dovey - albeit not quite enough - and the illustration!  
> This is for everyone in the comments who keeps motivating me to write (and draw) more! Thank you, you lovely, _lovely_ people!


	7. Big Talking Small Fry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly belated chapter, Real Life™ rather punched me in the face and kept kicking as I went down... also, I was clearly mistaken in my estimate of this being a short chapter.  
> Oh well. Here it is. Enjoy!

"Well, wasn't that a waste of time." Madame Tracy muttered, knees creaking as she pushed herself up from the ground.

The Them plus Dog were all curled up together on top of some trash bags - miraculously filled with feather pillows and perfectly clean - and Newt and Anathema were leaning heavily on each other.

"You don't..." Newt yawned, as Madame Tracy shook the children awake. "Don't have a guest room, do you?"

"Ye ken get sum shut-eye on me floor..." Shadwell offered, throwing a bleary glare tinged with envy through the window, where Aziraphale and Crowley were curled up on the warm, comfy sofa, sleeping peacefully.

Shadwell had never hated those Southern Bastards more.

"Get a hotel?" Anathema suggested wearily. "Or does anybody have relatives in the London area that won't turn us away at the door?"

They all shook their heads, except for...

"Actu'lly..." Adam mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Might have sumthing like tha'."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Of all the things they had expected to answer the door - including a cowboy, aliens, or a big, shiny robot, Adam was Adam after all - a _nun_  was probably the last thing they'd expected.

"Good evening! Good night? Good morning!" She chattered happily, making a very good show of appearing airheaded despite the intelligence glinting in her eyes. "It's practically morning, anyway. Sun will be up any minute now! Something the matter? Who are you, anyway?"

"Hullo, Mary!" Adam beamed only a little tiredly. "See, I _did_  remember you now that I'm grown up!"

Sister Mary Loquacius experienced something she hadn't since re-joining the Chattering Order.

The words got struck in her throat, and for an entire minute, she stood there, perfectly speechless.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Esteemed Reader will by now be scratching their head, quite understandably confused.

Chattering Order, they'll say. Didn't they disband years ago? And didn't Mary Hodges start a quite successful career in management training - only hampered slightly by Crowley engaging in a round of competitive silly buggers?

And they're absolutely correct, of course. But, as is often the case, there's a little more to this story yet...

 

 

* * *

 

 

The ressurection of the Order started, as its destruction had, with Master Crowley and the mere existence of the Antichrist making Mary Hodges-Loquacius's life a good deal more difficult.

True, she could've spun the entire gun debacle into a successful marketing scheme. It would've been easy.*

 

*Well. Easy for _her._

 

Only... she had a hazy memory of Master Crowley and a strange man she'd never seen before, and then Mary Hodges had had the most lovely dream.

It had been about whatever she liked best.

And it turned out that whatever Mary Hodges liked best was wearing a wimple, chattering happily with her friends at the Order, arguing about which version of St. Beryl's legend they preferred, and worshipping Satan in a rather more direct way than most people did.*

 

*It was a fact of life that everybody paid tribute to the Dark Lord now and then. Not always in the tangible sacrificing-a-virgin-mother way, of course, but the devil, as they say, is in the details.

Thanks to Crowley, you hailed the Great Beast just by taking the M25 during rush hour, for instance. These things happened, just like even the most hardened devil worshippers sometimes said "bless you" before offering you their goat's-blood-stained handkerchief.

It all balances itself out in the end, you see.

 

So, when Mary Hodges woke up to the sound of machine gun fire and a lot of people shouting very loudly, she made a decision.

She went to the far wall of her study, took the little cross, and turned it upside down.

And that, she decided, would merely be the start of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Within the next day, Mary Hodges had sold the Manor and gone to London, where she met with the former Mother Superior, now MP.*

 

*After a lot of back and forth, the Mother Superior had realised that politics was the only field equally as wicked as leading a black sisterhood - if not more - and had promptly taken up with whichever political party had the (in her opinion) funniest name.

 

She had left that meeting with the old convent goat, Tim, a list of former Chattering Order members, and advice from the Mother Superior to re-recruit quite quickly, seeing as the End of the World was scheduled for the weekend.

Mary Hodges hadn't been too worried about that. Something told her that people - or, perhaps, people-shaped beings - were quite hard at work trying to prevent it; and if there was one thing she knew, it was that absolutely anything could be achieved if you just set your mind to it hard enough.

 

Not unsurprisingly, the End of the World came and went, and very few respectable Satanists had made plans for afterwards.

Mary Hodges - now Sister Mary Loquacius again - and her restored Order provided the perfect solution for these suddenly aimless individuals, and within a week of the End-That-Wasn't, she had enough members to start scouring the housing market for something suitably satanic-seeming.

The location she eventually settled on was a harsh, square building that had once housed a bank*, sitting just on the brink between the reputable and disreputable parts of London.

 

*You just couldn't beat that residual air of Pure Evil, Sister Mary knew. Prime real estate for the discerning Satanist.

 

It wasn't as charming as Tadfield Manor, of course, but isolation was so eleven years ago, and the aesthetic had grown on the new nuns.*

 

*They called it the 'Concrete Convent', and, since crimes against architecture probably pleased the Dark Lord just as much as any other, not without a hint of pride in their voices.

 

And to Sister Mary Loquacius, it was the home she'd hoped to keep by staying in Tadfield Manor.

 _I wasn't happy there,_ she realised, right in the middle of the first black mass she held with her new and old sisters in what had once been the vault. _But I am happy now._

And she was. She truly was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Returning to our story, on that morning the Chattering Order was abuzz with conversation about the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness ("Adam," Adam insisted. "Just Adam.") choosing the Concrete Convent as His temporary residence, and immediately offered any assistance His Unholiness could make use of.

Adam - who did revel in the attention only the littlest, tiniest bit - immediately got up on the table to explain about Aziraphale and Crowley and the Rescue Mission and the Prophetic Tidbit, delighted to have an audience who said "ooooh!" and "aaaaah!" and "well done, Our Lord of Darkness!" at all the right bits.*

 

*There was also one cry of "baaaah!", but that was just Tim.

 

And Sister Mary, who had had all this explained to her already in the wee hours of the morning, was frying some eggs.

"Fancy me," she whispered happily under her breath. "Making breakfast for the Antichrist. And for the Antichrist's little friends, and for his cutesy-wutesy hellyhound..."

The part of her that was still Mary Hodges was a little worried, considering the last time the Chattering Order had had the Antichrist under their roof, they'd been disbanded within the week; but Adam was such a sweetheart, and so genuinely caring, she seriously doubted he would let any harm come to them.

 

(And even if, Sister Mary had made very, _very_  sure the Order's insurance was up-to-date, so another little fire would hardly be the end of the world.

Especially since even the literal End hadn't been.)

 

She carried the plates into the dinning hall - previously conference room - and placed them in front of the charming young couple currently sifting through a stack of file cards.

"They're ever so precious, aren't they?" She gushed, gazing adoringly at Adam and the Them doing a delightful reenactment of Aziraphale and Crowley's drunk conversation, with Pepper as an unforgettable demon, and Wensleydale perfect as the angel.*

 

*They forgot who was who halfway through, but the nuns clapped anyway.

 

"And it only seems like yesterday that I counted his little toesie-woesies... time flies by so fast, doesn't it?"

Anathema and Newt nodded, not looking up from the file cards. They'd already learnt that Chattering Nuns required very little outside input in their conversations.

"Did you sleep well? I know the beds are a bit lumpy... oh, and was that you having very loud premarital sex? Because, about that..."

Newt's head snapped up, red as a tomato. Nuns, right. Convent, right.

"I'm so sorry!" He babbled. "Is there a prayer we can say to make up for it? A rosary? Or..."

It occured to him that there was an obvious solution, to the premarital bit at least, and, well... might be as good a moment as any.

"Anathema..." He moved to go down on one knee. "Will you..."

"Nonsense! It's no trouble at all. Just be a bit quieter next time, please." Sister Mary answered, beaming.

"Oh." Newt blinked up at Anathema, and scrambled back into a standing position.

She gave him the kind of shrewd look people had on their faces when they were sure something important had just happened, _but they'd be damned if they knew what,_ bef _ore_  returning to her file cards.

Newt sat back down, avoiding to as much as look at her. _Next time, Pulsifer, and that time you'll have a ring and no nuns in attendance._

Sister Mary Loquacius, entirely oblivious to these happenings, just kept on cheerfully chattering about anything that came to mind.

And, well, if weddings came to mind, then that was purely coincidental and had nothing to do with needling the darling couple into something.

Not at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Another day, another prophecy chosen. This one, in Anathema's opinion, was especially promising:

 

_Sende ye the Chatteringe One witth the Silenfe_

_Unto Bookes Fell, that they sayeth to the Angell:_

_'Are ye nott wedde witth oure Mafter, the Serpente?'_

_And thif be promis'd;_

_Two bodys shalle join 'ere nyght falleth_

_Loving each othere in mynd and fleshe both._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Demons had to have an _exceptional_  memory for faces. Otherwise, how would they keep track of all the sinning?

Angels, however, didn't.

And so, all Aziraphale saw when looking at the two nuns in his bookshop was what he always saw: someone to get rid of before they bought any books.

(On some level, the wimples also registered, but Aziraphale had _priorities.)_

"Can I help you?" Aziraphale asked pleasantly, somehow still managing to radiate a feeling of _you are not welcome here, go away now, go away fast_  that hit unsuspecting customers in the face with the intensity of a gale force.

The two nuns staggered back a step, but caught themselves quickly.

"Good morning, Mr. Aziraphale!" Sister Mary Loquacius beamed.

"Splendid weather for this time of year, isn't it? And, oooh, what a lovely little bookshop this is! Are those all first editions?"

The nun beside her only nodded, smiling shyly.*

 

*As far as Sister Mary had been concerned, after the end of the world (not), you could loosen the rules a little; so Ethel Wainwright - now Sister Ethel Taciturn - had finally, after years of applying and being refused and reapplying and being refused again, been allowed to join the Chattering Order despite her crippling shyness.

Sister Mary had quickly grown quite fond of her, as had the rest of the convent. There was nothing more... _attractive_  than being a good listener among chatterboxes.

 

"Not all, no." Aziraphale frowned mildly. Something was peculiar about those habits. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

(This was, of course, only asked so he could inform them that they sadly didn't stock whatever book was named next, ever so sorry, goodbye and don't come again!)

"Well, yes. But not anything, _anyone,_  actually! We're nuns of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl, you see, who was elevated into sainthood after-"

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasped in recognition. "You're the Sa- er."

"The Satanist nuns, yes!" Sister Mary confirmed, Sister Ethel nodding beside her. "We've recently rebuilt the Order, and were hoping to find Master Crowley here, since you two are so close, to tell him-"

"Crowley and I aren't close!" Aziraphale immediately burst out. "We're Enemies. Yes! Hereditary Enemies, Heaven and Hell and all that, he never comes here, haven't seen him in centuries! In fact, I don't even know who you're talking about, never met the man. Krow-li? Who's that!?"*

 

*Aziraphale was under the impression that he was a quite capable liar.

The Esteemed Reader will undoubtedly agree with us that he is, in fact, _not._

 

(Sister Ethel stiffled a giggle behind her hand. Sister Mary found it quite endearing.)

"Oh, no need to worry, Mr. Aziraphale, sir!" She quickly reassured him. "We serve our Master faithfully, and would never wish him harm. Or you, being his beloved spouse and all."

"I don't... spouse!?" Aziraphale spluttered.

"Yes, aren't you two married?" Following the script perfectly so far. Sister Mary mentally patted herself on the back. "He talks about you all the time!"

"Crowley and I are just friends!" Aziraphale argued heatedly. "...o-or we would be if I even knew _who_  on earth you were talking about, you... you nonsense-talking delusional person!"

 

 

"Oh. That's a shame." The Sisters took great care to let their faces fall convincingly. "You'd make such a charming couple. And, as I said, he does sing your praises _all the time!_ "*

 

*Crowley had never _ever_  mentioned Aziraphale in a positive context within any Satanist's earshot, but one could bend the truth a little for a good cause, couldn't one? From Adam's description of circumstances, he'd certainly _wanted_  to.

(And lying wasn't such a big deal for Satanist nuns, anyway.)

 

"... does he?" Aziraphale's aggressively defensive posture deflated noticeably. "Well, I suppose... you could wait for him here, if you'd like. I'll make cocoa."

"Thank you!" Sister Mary gushed, Sister Ethel grinning shyly (and quite cutely) beside her.

"And, you know, if you ever do change your mind about the just friends bit, the Chattering Order also has a choir. We sing at weddings, and bat mitzvahs, and funerals, those are always fun! Anyway, we'd love to sing at your and Master Crowley's wedding, it would be so beautiful! Would you wear white? I don't think Master Crowley would, but you never know. He'd look great in it, I'm sure, but so would you, obviously! Are you sure you don't want to marry him? I think he'd say yes, he does like you a great deal, and why are you grimacing like that? Love is a beautiful thing, we Chattering Nuns always say! Which may sound odd, because we're nuns and all, but considering the story of St. Beryl, which begins in..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley, meanwhile - speak of the demon - was sauntering down the street, an ailing English Ivy plant shivering in terror in his arms.

"How does it feel?" He hissed into its leaves. "Knowing it's over? Knowing, if you'd only made a _bit_  of an effort, it might not have been you? Are you _scared,_  you miserable waste of good soil? ARE YOU!?"

(Passers-by gave him slightly odd looks. Crowley answered with a far-too-toothy grin, and the odd looks stopped instantly.)

The plant in his arms would've wailed in distress if it was capable of speech.*

 

*In fact, there did seem to be a very high ultrasound whine emitting from its leaves, despite the sheer biological impossibility of it.

 

"Well." Crowley rounded the last corner, grin turning a sliver more genuine at the sight of the bookshop. "I want you to remember that feeling, yeah? You may be getting a second chance now, but no matter what saccharine nonsense the angel promises you, I _will_  be back, and if you don't perform satisfactorily... no third chances, get it?"

The plant got it. It was a very clever plant.

In fact, the English Ivy had been one of Crowley's most exemplary plants for years*, and Aziraphale had doted lovingly on it on more than one occasion.

 

*It had taken _months_  of overwatering and cutting down on fertilizer until Crowley could reasonably justify choosing it to 'dispose' of. Aziraphale better be blessed grateful!

 

"Good girl." Crowley flicked one of its leaves.

Aziraphale would probably want to name it again. Had with all the other ones, great old sap.

Crowley quickly fought down the wave of fondness threatening to crest within him, and pushed open the door to the bookshop as far as was possible,* struggling to slip through.

 

*In yet another attempt to deter customers, Aziraphale had taken to basically barricading the front entrance, strategically stacking books behind the door until it barely opened far enough to admit a particularly skinny fashion model on the search for new diet books.

(Accordingly, Aziraphale had been using the back entrance for the past few days.)

 

"Hey, Aziraphale!" He called. "Look what-"

He stopped short.

The plant slipped through numb fingers, pot shattering on the hardwood floor.

"WHAT ARE _YOU_  DOING HERE!?" He snarled right into Aziraphale's startled "Crowley! Oh, dear me, the poor thing!"

"Us, Master Crowley?" Sister Mary asked eagerly.

Sister Ethel blinked innocently beside her, sipping her cocoa.

"No, no, I'm talking to the shelf, of course." Crowley rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses. "YES, YOU, OBVIOUSLY!"

"Now, my dear, is that really-" Aziraphale started, frowning mildly.

"Hush!" Crowley was by his side in an instant, quickly checking for any obvious or disguised injuries. "Did they hurt you, angel?"

Aziraphale blinked.

"No?" He hazarded. "And _whyever_  would they?"

"They're Sssssatanists!" Crowley hissed, throwing a threatening glower at the nuns, while also maneuvering himself between them and Aziraphale. "What did they do? Strange rites? Did they touch you? Touch the books? They left sigils, I bet they left sigils!"

He hastily scrambled over to the nearest shelf, scanning the decorated spines for anything spelling 'Hail the Dread Horror, Dismemberer of Angels'* or the like.

 

*The Dread Horror had recently decided it preferred to be called Geraldine, and had taught itself knitting in its sulfurous tar pit.

What happened with Crowley was turning out to be, to Hell's infinite dismay, more the start of an entire phenomenon than an isolated occurrence; and, just like Heaven's slowly emerging anarchist youth culture, this was considered the Next Big Catastrophe, and would draw all the respective factions' attentions for a while yet.

Aziraphale and Crowley, meanwhile, were peacefully oblivious to the uprisings they had inspired, and would continue to be so for multiple centuries yet.

(Crowley did, however, occasionally gift Aziraphale with another of the tar-stained scarves that kept turning up in his mail, provided their pattern was suitably tartan-esque.)

 

"But, Master Crowley!" Sister Mary chirped a little uncertainly, watching their Master fume quietly while pulling book after book from the shelves to Aziraphale's vocal protests. "We were honestly just-"

"Did they speak in tongues!?" Crowley interrupted her, rounding on Aziraphale again.

(Ethel took her hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze. Mary's heart skipped a beat.)

"No!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "I mean... they _were_  saying some rather strange and quite impossible-"

"KNEW IT!" He crowed triumphantly. "Who sent you? Hastur? Dagon, I always knew Dagon had it out for me! Beelzebub?"

Sister Ethel hastily shook her head.

"We serve YOU, Mas-" Sister Mary tried.

"Whoever it is, you can run back and tell them..." Crowley pulled himself up to his full height,* eyes flashing a poisonous yellow even through his glasses.

 

*Seeing as Crowley constantly attempted to slouch in a Cool™ manner, this was quite unusual - and impressive to boot.

 

"NOBODY touches MY ANGEL except ME. Understand? I see any affiliate of Hell within two blocks of this shop, I..."

Crowley made an extremely graphic gesture that made the nuns wince and Aziraphale let out a sickened "oh, dear me, no!".

 _"Capisssssce?"_ He hissed.

"Yessir!" Sister Mary squeaked. "Your angel. No Satanists. Right-o!"

And then she and Ethel - who was nodding frantically - turned on their heels and spontaneously broke the world record for the 100m dash as run by persons wearing a full habit*.

 

*Previous holder being of course the Bishop of Bath and Wells, after being found both in said habit and the archdeacon's bed by an unknown monk, who, after the initial shock, had had the presence of mind to stop the bishop's time and dutifully record it for posterity.

 

"Yeah, you better run!" Crowley shouted, waving one fist after them in a manner that would've made Mr. R. P. Tyler proud.

"You _are_  alright, aren't you?" He added anxiously towards Aziraphale, who might yet burst into black fire at any moment if those devious nuns had managed to...

 

Wait.

 

Crowley paused.

He hadn't... he hadn't _actually_  said 'my' angel, had he? Or... oh, Lords of Hell, that bit about 'nobody but me', the one never to be spoken aloud EVER because it was so terribly, compromisingly _telling?_

Please, Crowley begged the universe at large. _Please_  say he hadn't said any of that!

The universe, regrettably, pointed out that it couldn't possibly oblige, seeing as he _had,_  actually, Said That.

Ever so sorry.

 

Crowley glanced down at the floor, contemplating if it shouldn't be coaxed into swallowing him up.

"What, for Heaven's sake, was _that,_  Crowley!?" Aziraphale exclaimed.

A mile-wide protective streak coming on full force? An unfortunate reveal of true sentiment? A love confession in all but name?

"Er." Crowley chose to say.

"Whatever did those poor girls do to you!" Aziraphale snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Really, my boy!"

(No 'dear'. Crowley felt that one like a punch to the gut.)

"They were _just nuns!"_

"Satanist nuns..." Crowley protested weakly.

"Of the _Chattering Order!_  Honestly, Crowley, nurses who managed to botch the ONE thing they were tasked to accomplish in all of existence, does that sound like a threat to you!?"

"I'm sorry, I'm confused. What is it that's getting you so upset here?" Crowley frowned. He'd been expecting to furiously (and ineffectively) deny his love right about now.

"Your absolutely _abyssmal_  conduct towards the two young ladies, of course!" Aziraphale huffed. "They were merely attempting to contact you, no need for such a... a ludicrous display!"

He pushed past Crowley to kneel beside the English Ivy, which had been in the process of coming to terms with a future as compost, muttering comforting nonsense to it.*

 

*He was going to name it Alberta.

 

"Ludicrous!" Crowley snapped, the moment he stopped thanking God, Satan, Adam and the universe at large for his idiot angel unerringly zeroing in on the circumstances of his outburst rather than its contents. "I was trying to _protect_  you!"

_Oh, nice going, Crowley. Dodge a bullet just to run straight into the next lamppost. Good show._

"Well, that was _entirely_  out of line." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and Alberta's suddenly intact pot - which had spontaneously acquired a tartan-patterned rim - was nestled securely in his arms. "I don't need _protecting_ in my own four walls, Crowley!"

 _"These_  four walls?" Crowley snarled. "The ones that _burned down_ after you got yourself discorporated?"

"Irrelevant." Aziraphale waved him off. "And fully my fault besides."

He threw Crowley a withering look over Alberta's leaves.*

 

*Who was starting to feel like it was witnessing its parents' divorce, and silently grateful that 'the nice one' seemed to be getting sole custody.

 

"Are you quite done now," Aziraphale asked frostily, "or do you intend to harass more unsuspecting young ladies for absolutely no valid reason whatsoever?"

 _"Quite_  done." Crowley hissed, stomping back to the entrance. "And don't think I'll ever save you again!"

"I didn't need saving in the first place, Crowley!" Aziraphale called after him.

"Get sacrificed in an occult ritual, see if I care!" Crowley spat, wrenching the door open with quite some force.*

 

*The books barricading it promptly decided they had better planes of existence to occupy, and therefore posed no hindrance.

 

"Know what, maybe I will!"

"Don't let me stop you!"

"Good, because I won't!"

"Go ahead then!"

"Right!"

_"Right!"_

Crowley threw Aziraphale a last scathing glare, thought _why, oh why must I love him,_  and then stormed back to the Bentley without looking back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _"Honestly."_ Aziraphale murmured crossly to himself, bending down to return the scattered books to their shelf.

At least this answered the question as to why the two nuns had had such quite impossible ideas. All Crowley's foul deeds, he really should've guessed.

Only to protect him, yes, to better sell the association with Aziraphale to Hell's higher-ups - or lower-downs, as it were - by implying... implying...

He was likely the ultimate laughing stock among the local Satanic Cults, if not the very Circles of Hell: an angel owned by a demon; in thrall to a demon, who must only say 'my angel' to make Aziraphale's heart not so much stumble as simply fall flat on its nonexistent face...

Ridiculous.

Aziraphale sighed. But also very much his own fault.

He shouldn't have been so waspish about it, quite unbecoming.

Crowley didn't know - at least Aziraphale rather hoped he didn't - that his words for pretence's sake happened to be mortifyingly true on Aziraphale's end, and if one removed the - quite unintentional - slight inherent in that...

They _were_  technically Satanists, after all.

Perfectly pleasant ones, but Satanist is as Satanist does*, Aziraphale supposed, and Crowley...

 

*Satanist was, in this particular case, actually mostly an excuse to wear neat habits and come to terms with the fact that the world didn't end _even though we were damn sure it would;_  but Aziraphale, for all his personal growth in the last few months, still held on to a rather black-and-white worldview when it came to the kind of people who hung around with goats and put their crosses the wrong way up.

 

Well. Crowley couldn't feasibly be blamed for anything beyond a slightly-more-than-reasonable paranoia, and painfully neglecting his English Ivy.

Fussing over Alberta, "oh, why did he do that to you, my sweet, hmmm? Come now, let's put you to the others", Aziraphale allowed himself a single indulgent moment of thinking _MY demon,_  before he locked that thought away in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind* and went and made himself a nice, calming cocoa.

 

*Those areas usually only contained a handful of questions he knew, for his own sake, never to ask in earshot of the Almighty - so, never, really - lest he be shoved unceremoniously downwards.

(The difference between him and Crowley, Aziraphale sometimes thought, was that _he_  had known when to keep his mouth shut... and absolutely nothing else.

That thought was locked away, too. It scared him more than any other he'd ever had.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sister Mary Loquatius and Sister Ethel Taciturn returned to the convent in a hurry, throwing a "no luck, sounded like we made it worse" in the direction of the Antichrist and Company before hurrying off to let out all that "thank Satan we're not dead yet" adrenaline in a mutually satisfying - and rather loud* - manner.

 

*Ethel turned out to be capable of raising her voice to quite the volume if she was... _properly motivated._  Who knew!

 

Maybe Ken Russell had had the right of it, after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley slunk into the Ritz projecting the kind of aura that made people cross the street and mutter a Hail Mary under their breath, zeroing in on the one table for two still miraculously free.

He put flies in everybody's soup with a flick of his wrist, and didn't look up when someone settled in the chair beside him.

"Good evening, Crowley." Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley grunted.

"I apologise for my words." Aziraphale continued, daintily plucking up his napkin and avoiding to look at him. "I know you meant well."

"I'm a demon." Crowley grumbled, pushing a plate of Aziraphale's favourite hors d'oeuvres over to him. "I never 'mean well'."

"Of course not, my dear." Aziraphale said warmly, taking one and chewing with relish.

 

And all was right in the world again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not quite, Agnes... at least Sister Mary got a girlfriend out of it.
> 
> Our boys had a fight! Except they made up the very same day, because they can't possibly stay mad at each other.
> 
> (Also, can you tell that their Twitter presence has endeared the Chattering Order to me forever?)
> 
> Regularly scheduled Nutterian translation:
> 
> Make Sister Mary and the quiet girl she has a crush on  
> Go to the bookshop, and keep talking to that idiot angel  
> About him and Crowley being married and a totally cute couple besides.  
> And I can guarantee;  
> That some naughty stuff will go down before dusk  
> Both an emotional and physical coming together, _if you know what I mean, nudge-nudge wink-wink!_
> 
> All my love to the people commenting once more! You really do motivate me to get new chapters out as quickly as humanly possible... <3


	8. It Never Rains But It Pours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: the next chapter, I'll bring out without delay!  
> Also me: has essay deadline on Friday.  
> That was... not well-thought-out of me. But I managed! Nearly. I think.

"We need a name." Adam declared, apropos of nothing.

They were all sitting around the altar/conference table, stacks of newspapers and notes that only Anathema understood* strewn all over it.

 

*Newt had long ago realised how really very out of his league she was, more precisely when he'd read her academic paper on Gertrude Thingamajig and her colleague, Basil Wrigglymetalbit, who had invented the thingamajig and the wriggly metal bit (you know the kind, they put them on everything these days) respectively.

He'd gotten absolutely lost about three paragraphs in, and it wasn't doing anything for his insecurities to know Anathema would, if she even agreed, be marrying _far_  beneath her own worth...

 

"Wha' we nid is tae crack their skulls taegether!" Shadwell grumbled. "Them barmy pansies."

"Seconded!" Pepper raised her hand.

"Violence is never the solution, Pepper." Wensleydale said very smartly, and then he said "ow!", because she'd kicked him.*

 

*Pepper found that, when it came to making stupid boys shut up, violence _was,_  in fact the solution. Sometimes, at least.

 

"I still think we should do the greeting card one," Newt added a hint timidly.

"That won't work, s'not Valentine's Day for _months_  yet!" Brian argueed, feeding Tim some grass from his pockets.*

 

*Brian's pockets were magical things, capable of producing or containing just about anything, as long as you didn't mind it being covered in dust and oddly sticky in places.

 

Madame Tracy was knitting a polka dot scarf, and didn't join the conversation.

"Why would we need a name, Oh Lord of All?" Sister Mary took pity on him, settling down next to him.

(Ethel followed, wordlessly moving to sit in her lap. Mary happily let her.)*

 

*Newt, upon seeing that, was suddenly reminded of a rather crude comment about nuns that one of his relatives had voiced once, and supposed Uncle Richard had struck a core of truth amongst all his bigotry, after all.

 

"Well, way I see it, any cool gang needs a name!" Adam said importantly. He'd been saying things importantly quite a lot lately, the nuns really seemed to like it. "Like the Them. But the Them is just me and Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale and Dog, too, I guess. We need a name for all of us, or it's unfair!"

He nodded firmly, having just made an Important Decision.

"Oh, absolutely, Destroyer of the Unworthy!" Sister Mary chirped, and Sister Ethel nodded encouragingly. "What shall it be?"

Adam had, once more, not quite thought that far.

"Witchfinder Army!" Shadwell immediately threw into the ring.

"The Cupids?" Madame Tracy suggested hopefully.

 _"Witchfinder Army."_ Shadwell repeated.

"Themallus. Like the Them, but with all of us!" Brian enthused.

"That's stupid," Pepper said, at the same time that Shadwell insisted "Witchfinder. Army."

"The Matchmakers?" Newt tried to say, but faltered two-thirds through under Shadwell's glare, and amended it to "Actually, I quite like Witchfinder Army..."

"NO. WITCHFINDERS." Anathema said very dangerously, not even glancing up from her work.

 

"I know!" Adam said.

Everybody turned to him, and it went without saying that they'd accept whatever Adam chose. He was Adam, after all.

"We compromise! Cupids isn't cool enough, and Pepper's right, yours is stupid - sorry Brian - but I like matchmakers, and I like army, even if it isn't nice to be Witchfinders. So we're the Matchmaker Army from now on! Alright?"

He beamed.

It was quite alright, everybody supposed, and Sister Ethel clapped quite enthusiastically, with Sister Mary prattling on about how lovely and inspired and clever that was, good job!

 

"Matchmaker Army. Wonderful." Anathema marked another bit of file card. "But what we really need is a plan, not a name."

"We'll get to that," Adam assured her. "Once you have a name, the rest jus' comes, trust me."

The Them backed him up with forceful nods.

"Cannae YE doo sumfing, lad?" Shadwell grumbled, clearly not entirely happy with the compromise. "Make 'em reelise? Ye've gotten power enuff to mess 'round wit' t'bloody _weather,_ go'ssake!"

Adam opened his mouth to answer, but Madame Tracy suddenly threw down her knitting, and hurried to the table as fast as her knees could carry her, flipping through file cards until she found the one she wanted.

"Adam, darling..." She asked with a strange glint in her eye, holding the prophecy up. "How good are you with, say, thunderstorms and torrential downpours?"*

 

*The answer was, of course, _quite_ good. At least Newt and Anathema could attest for that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_It stormeth alike it never hath befor,_

_Exceptum in tyme of Noah;_

_And watter drencheth ye garment_

_That love may warme ye_

_As baréd ye stande afor him_

_In Falle's earlieft chille_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley stumbled into the bookstore, blessing both very loudly and with nearly frightening creativity.

"Language, Crowley." Aziraphale chided lightly from behind the counter. "So, which cut you off this time, Royce or- goodness!"

 _"Goodness._ Blessed and thrice-annointed goodness is right." Crowley grumbled, shrugging out of his suit jacket and wringing it out with little care for Aziraphale's water-sensitive floorboards.

"Oh, dear boy, why didn't you park closer if it's raining!?" Aziraphale was already fretting over him, fluttering at his side and ushering him into the backroom. "Look at you, you're drenched!"

"I _did._  Just at the nearest corner." Crowley took a certain vindictive joy in dripping all over Aziraphale's unspeakably ghastly old carpet.*

 

*In fact, he was leading an ongoing vendetta against that carpet. In the past century, he had managed to spill tea, a rather fine Chardonnay (shame about it), various bodily fluids including the blood of not-innocents and, on one memorable occasion, a bucketful of neon-green resin, all over it.

Aziraphale had only ever given him an exasperated look, and simply miracled it clean. (Well, he'd had some choice words to say after the resin, but the carpet stayed.)

 

"But this downpour is so bad, it's transcended the realm of cats and dogs, and has gone right for tigers and wolves - no! Ferocious beast that neither mortals nor etheral beings have a name for, at the very least." Crowley continued to complain effusively. "Upstairs lot isn't planning another Biblical Flood, are they?"

"Oh dear, I rather hope not..." Aziraphale peered out the window, mildly concerned. "And it's not like they'd tell me if they were."*

 

*Were he slightly more tech-savvy, he might've added something about not really being on Heaven's email forwarding list anymore, but as it was, a fitting simile evaded him.

 

"Well, in any case, I was soaked after two steps." Crowley groused. "And Satan knows why, but I just don't seem to manage willing a simple umbrella into existence!"

"Now, now, no reason to fret." Aziraphale clucked compassionately, convincingly enough that nobody but Crowley would ever pick up on the fact that he was gearing up for a good mocking. "It happens to everyone, dear boy. A spot of _'_ _performance issues'_  doesn't mean you're..." He paused for effect. _”...omn-impotent."*_

 

*Crowley had recently gifted Aziraphale a collection of 19th century puns and word plays he'd stumbled over quite 'on accident' while he'd been researching old books for not-Aziraphale-related-business-honestly.

He regretted that now.

 

"Hah." Crowley said frostily. And shiveringly. Teeth-chatteringly.

"P-pun all you want, regular c-c-comedian is what you are, but do miracle me dry f-first, w-why don't you."

"Patience is a _virtue,_  Crowley..." Aziraphale singsonged lightly, but obligingly placed his hands on drenched shoulders, fixed him with a look of divine benevolence, smiled...

 

...and nothing happened.

The smile slid off the angel's face. He took a step back, frowned at Crowley's shirt, but still... no dice.

"It happens to everyone, eh?" Crowley would've snarked, if he'd been freezing a little less. All he got out was "I-i-i-i-t-t-t ha-ha-hah" before a sneeze caught him unawares.

He'd never been particularly good with the cold. Probably something to do with technically being a reptile.*

 

*Cold-bloodedness was a curse. During the early days, when Crowley hadn't yet been doing human bodies, he'd gotten caught in a snowstorm and found himself paralysed by the cold for two weeks.

(And it might've been longer, if Aziraphale hadn't found him and flown - _raced_ \- down to the equator with Crowley wrapped haphazardly around his arms and middle. He would've been grateful, but Aziraphale had almost-dropped him about six times too often for that.)

 

"Worrying." Aziraphale was visibly straining not to bite his perfectly manicured nails in his harried state. "Very worrying. That we both loose our powers so sudden-... oh, dear me, you _are_  cold, aren't you?"

"N-n-no s-s-sh-shi..." Crowley glared.

"Oh, come here." Aziraphale pulled off his overcoat, draping it over Crowley's shoulders like a blanket.

(Rationally, Crowley knew that no substantial change of temperature could come from that...

...and yet, it felt like the room had just gotten quite a bit warmer.)

"Never you mind about it now, dear boy." Aziraphale fussed gently. "I must have a spare set of clothes somewhere, I'm sure. Let me get them, back in a tick!"

Crowley only sneezed weakly in response.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Aziraphale returned with an armful of comfy and warm clothes that probably broke some sort of Geneva fashion convention, he stopped short in the doorway with a strangled "Crowley!"

"W-what?" Crowley momentarily paused his efforts to peel his sodden dress shirt off his shoulders to throw him a confused glance.

"You- undressed!" Aziraphale garbled, looking like a pearl-clutching Victorian maiden only a dramatic gasp of 'indecent!' away from fainting.

"Of-f c-c-course. My c-clothes are wet and I'm c-c-cold. F-figured I'd g-get sssst-t-tarted." Crowley finally got the shirt off and started on his pants.

Aziraphale let out a sound that reminded Crowley of the time he'd nearly choked on a panicking live mouse*.

 

*Snake life is wild. Don't judge.

 

Other people in that situation might've shut, or at least politely diverted their eyes.

Aziraphale seemed to have entirely forgotten he even had eyes*, very ashamedly gawping at Crowley without so much as blinking.

 

*Which, in fairness, he didn't _technically._

 

"S-seriously, what!?" Crowley repeated, too miserably cold and starting-to-get-irritated to fully appreciate how very, _very_  flustered - and flushed - Aziraphale seemed to be all of a sudden. "Don't t-t-tell me you're a p-prude!"

He went over and pried the clothes from his arms, because Aziraphale certainly wasn't making any move to hand them over, and quickly pulled them on, trying very hard to convince himself that the uncomfortableness the angel currently exhibited was due to general nakedness, not because he was - what, repulsed? He certainly seemed shocked enough - by Crowley's nakedness specifically.

Just the thought stung, so he banished it to the far corner of his mind into the cupboard of Things He Never Thought About If He Could Help It.*

 

*Among them such classics as the theodicy conundrum, the shameful late fall of 2774 BC, and the fact that he was desperately in love with Aziraphale a.k.a. _the Enemy-with-a-capital-E._

That one even had its own shelf.

 

"T-there. Happy?" Crowley spread his arms, demonstrating how the shirt, complete with nauseating sweater vest, was simultaneously too loose and too short on him. "Not offending your angelic sensibilities any longer, I hope."

"I. Ah. Um. Glb." Aziraphale said smoothly.

"It's certainly not doing much for my demonic ones." Crowley gave the multipatterned socks a look of hatred so profound and all-encompassing that it would've gotten even Hastur to mutter 'well, maybe there's some hope for him yet.' "You've never gotten t-tested for colourblindness, have you? Or general blindness. It's the only explanation for... _this._ "

"Mblgah!" Aziraphale protested eloquently.

"Well, it's only until-" Crowley paused in the middle of scooping up his previously-sodden clothes, which weren't looking all that drippy anymore, come to think of it... "Oh, blessed be!"

"Hah?" Aziraphale asked intelligently.

"They're _dry!_  NOW it works, isn't that just-" He broke off into a growl. "Right. Changing again, I'm not staying in your hand-me-downs a second longer than I have to!"

Aziraphale squeaked, honestly squeaked, and, while Crowley was still in the process of pulling the sweater vest over his head - he was going to burn the thing, he really was - scuttled out of the room while babbling a little hysterically about hot cocoa.

 _He was never like this around Adam and Eve, and they were always frolicking in the nude,_  a mean little voice whispered in the back of Crowley's head as he stepped out of what was certainly one of Aziraphale's ugliest trousers.

He did his best to ignore it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale sank down to the floor next to the kitchen counter, head between his knees.

That was... he'd never... well, he'd _rarely,_  and only when _Crowley..._ it was... he...

Breathing in and out steadily - there must be something to it, all the humans were doing it after all - he forced a lid on the boiling and bubbling pot of emotion in his chest, and did his best to, as the young 'uns said, 'get a drip on himself'.

He would manage. He would. He always had so far...

 

 

* * *

 

 

To explain Aziraphale's reaction, a note on angels:

It has long been established that angels are mostly sexless, which is really quite nifty and perfectly practical.

And yet... imagine liking cake. Liking it a great deal, perhaps even loving it, and seeing it sit on the kitchen's windowsill; but not daring to get closer, since just being friends with the cake is enough, and the cake doesn't like you _that way_  back, in any case.

And then a slice is placed in front of you. And maybe you have no mouth, no digestive system. You'll still like it, still _want_  it, if you're inclined towards cake at all, because you love cake, with all your heart and all your soul, from the beginning of time onwards.

Not having a mouth barely matters, because with just a bit of effort, you _could_  have one, if the cake was interested in that kind of thing at all.

But you know the cake _isn't_  interested. That the cake is probably uncomfortable being lusted af- _hungered_ after in this manner, no matter how deliberately it seems to be tempting you. And you still, _still,_ after 6000 years, _want_  it, in a way the cake will never want you back.

Imagine that, dear Esteemed Reader, and you'll understand why Aziraphale is sitting on the floor of his kitchen, quietly hyperventilating.

 

(His choice of metaphor also had something to do with him being a tad peckish, but that's entirely beside the point.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

This time, when Aziraphale stepped into the room, Crowley was fully dressed, the overcoat draped over his shoulders once more.

(Its lining was a little damp now, but he barely cared. The placebo effect was strong in this coat.)

The angel wordlessly miracled up a very fuzzy blanket with a very atrocious pattern, and handed both that and a cup of cocoa over to him.

(Crowley noted that he took great care to not let their fingers touch. Not feeling personally attacked by that got harder and harder.)

"So, since when are you like that with nudity, anyway?" Crowley asked as neutrally as he could, once he was ensconced in the blanket with Aziraphale on the sofa next to him - though maintaining some distance. "Is it the Victorian influences? I know you liked the Victorians.*"

 

*Aziraphale insisted it was because "the British upper lip had still been truly stiff in those days", but Crowley suspected it had something to do with snappily-tailored suits, rich foods, gavotte dancing, and the suggestive little doodle at the end of Oscar's signature in Aziraphale's copy of "The Picture of Dorian Gray".  
(He'd lost more sleep than he would've liked over that last one, truth be told.)

 

"Well." Aziraphale wetted his lips - focus, Crowley, FOCUS - clearly choosing his words with utmost care. "I thought... surely, _surely_ it had to be a recent development, brought on by... certain changes of circumstances, but then I think back, really think back, and..."

Aziraphale's eyes softened noticeably, despite a little haunted, miserable crease hiding in their very corners.

"...and I realise, I must've _always_ felt this way, from the Garden onwards." He finished softly, wistfully, gazing down at his hands and shooting Crowley only the briefest, shyest look.

 _What a strange way to talk about prudishness,_ Crowley thought, but let it slide.

He sipped his cocoa, and tried very hard to remember why he'd gone to visit the bookshop in the first place. He was sure he'd had a reason, and it had sounded very true and not like an excuse at all.

In the end, it scarcely mattered, since Aziraphale never asked, just plied him with cocoa and biscuits ("you're thin as a rake, my dear, really you are!") and miracled up an entire sheep herd's worth of wool blankets until Crowley was almost lost in a cocoon of the damn things.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Outside, huddled together under an umbrella in the pouring rain, two figures stood.

"Well, that didnae work." The hunched, grumpy one said.

"Dearie me. I was so certain..." The other sighed. She was wearing a knitted hat with a polka dot pattern, and if one paid attention, one noticed that her companion was unhappily adorned in a similar scarf and gloves.

"Daft plan, anyway. T'foulest o' temptations, only t'be exp'cted from a painted harlot like yerself!"

"Oh hush, Mr. S. We must've gotten _somewhere_  with Mr. Aziraphale, I'm sure of it! We shared a body for a while, you know, and it certainly wasn't ME getting gooey at the sight of Mr. Crowley all singed and sooty, is all I'm saying!"

"Still didnae work."

"...oh, alright. Pass the 'phone, I'll tell darling Adam to let up on the rain. Gracious, it _is_  quite the downpour, isn't it?"

"Oh, aye."

A moment of silence between them.

"Ach, come closer then. Afore ye catch cold."

A giggle sounded, nearly lost under the cacophony of raindrops.

"Oh, _Mr._ _S!_ "

And then, quiet, rough, and just on the brink of tender, _"my Jezebel"_ in return.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protective!Crowley last chapter, Caring!Aziraphale in this one!
> 
> I actually pondered quite a while whether or not I should work with angels and demons as predominantly asexual, since I do kinda like the idea... but then I decided not to pass up on the heightened tension inherent in the ability of occult/ethereal beings to at least be demisexual, so there you have it, Aziraphale gets pretty hot under the feathers at the sight of Crowley half-naked and dripping.  
> (As seen in the illustration. You're welcome! ;))
> 
> Nutterian translation:  
> When it's bucketing like never before  
> (Except during the Flood, with the ark guy, you know the one)  
> And your clothes are dripping wet  
> Then love will get you pretty hot  
> As you're standing starkers before him  
> And it's fall, so like, _cold._


	9. Snakes In Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >sigh< I don't know what it is, but I'm not 100% satisfied with this one...  
> Well, nevermind, as long as people enjoy it, I'm happy!  
> This chapter will also finally make good on the promise inherent in the "Crowley Cuddles With A Snake" tag, hooray!
> 
> P.S. Random shout-out to pineappleyogurt(musicforlife101), congratulations, you were the 666th kudos on this story! ^-^

"Why me?" Newt asked.

He'd asked this question quite a few times during the planning stages, and had yet to receive any satisfaction from the answers he'd gotten.

"Because they've seen you least, obviously." Anathema tugged a shoulder strap in place, and applied a hint more makeup. "Come on, Newt, we talked about this!"

They had. At length. And yet...

Newt would do absolutely anything for Anathema, of course. He loved her. Love made you do the silliest things, like walk into an army base and face down Satan - which Newt considered to have been very silly indeed, from an objective point of view - but... it was only that...

"I can't do this, 'Theema! I _can't-"_ He'd never expected to be actively involved in any kind of deceptions*, much less in circumstances that-

 

*Newt's mother had once told him to always be honest. This was not because of any moral reasons, but simply because she had once asked him if he'd taken the last biscuit, and little Newton had gaped wordlessly for five minutes, then haltingly admitted to secretly being a cannibalistic cuttlefish, and promptly fainted from the stress.

Deceptions clearly didn't become him, and after the computer engineer/wages clerk debacle - which he blamed on a minor concussion sustained in the car crash - he'd been trying to avoid them entirely.

 

"Sure you can." She patted his head, both patronisingly and mindful of the hair. "Madame Tracy taught you how to walk in the shoes, didn't she? Stick to the script, this'll work a charm. Take the basket, off you go!"

She gave him a lingering kiss that had entirely too much lipstick involved,* and then she gave him a little shove out the alley.

 

*Quite possibly hinting at the things she'd promised they'd do as a reward. Newt was quite excited for those, oh yes.

 

 _"Why me?"_ Newt pleadingly asked the universe.

The universe didn't answer, and it wasn't like Newt had expected it to.

At least the dress was rather comfortable.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Throwe yeself in woman's garbe, Pulsifer,_

_And beatte thy face moft toroughly_

_So none may knowe ye, not Angell nor Daemon;_

_And bringeth the Hound of Hel_

_Who doth be Other shapéd, too_

_And alyke the ceenema pictur_

_Witth fyvescore and One dogge_

_Bindeth the lovers togethere_

_As noodel moft dangerouse._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale heard the first time, of course, but studiously pretended to be utterly deaf to any strange knocking sounds that might be inexplicably floating around the area for as long as he could.

By the sixth knock, he shouted "We're closed! Do come back between 2:59 and 3 o'clock tomorrow!", but to no avail.

He tried again: "No books to buy here, we're in the process of remodelling into a butcher's!"

The knocking persisted.

"This establishment is merely a front for the Scottish mafia, please reconsider your patronage!"

The knocking only gained in strength.

"Good grief." Aziraphale sighed, slowly ambling towards the door and taking care to put some of his personal favourites onto the topmost shelves on the way.

"Good morning!" He pulled open the front door, smiling kindly at the young woman shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"M-morning!" She stammered.

(There was something quite familiar about her, Aziraphale thought absently. A little like the Pulsifer lad from the dreadful Armageddon business... except she couldn't possibly be, young Newt never had such luscious, vaguely-fake-looking locks, he was quite sure of that.)

"How can I help you, Miss?" Aziraphale asked politely. "And may I just say, what a lovely floral print your dress has? It's most flattering on you."

It truly was, though it had to be said she didn't exactly fill it out. Wisp of a girl, almost boyishly slim, though good, strong shoulders. Aziraphale fought the impulse to offer her some biscuits, she was in dire need of fattening up a tad.*

 

*He had spent a good chunk of the 1700s going about town with cakes stuffed into his pockets, offering them to any urchin child he saw.

So had Crowley, incidentally, though he'd of course rather discorporate than admit to it, Aziraphale recalled with a fond sigh.

 

The girl squeaked out her thanks, and, after a spot of stammering and being encouraged, seemed to pull herself together.

"Hello-I-am-from-two-streets-down!" She blundered through a clearly rehearsed script.

"And-one-of-my-puppies-is-sick-I-need-someone-to-take-care-of-him-so-the-others-won't-get-sick-too!"

She held out a basket, from which a faint whimper emitted.

"Oh. Dear me." Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and awkwardly fiddled with them. "I would love to help, young lady, truly, but, you see, I am not entirely comfortable around dogs*, and then the books... the poor thing might damage them."

 

*Spending about a decade terrified of the day the Antichrist would receive a Hellhound will do that to you.

 

The girl gaped, pleadingly staring towards the shadowy entrance of the nearby alley, where someone else might easily conceal themselves and watch.

Then she frowned.

Blinked.

Glanced down at the basket, which was now more mewing than whining.

"Oh! Um, did I say puppy?" She babbled. "Kitten! I meant kitten, look!"

She thrust the basket at him, and there was indeed a tiny black-and-white cat inside, complete with slightly backwards ear.

Its eyes glinted red for a moment, but surely that had been a trick of the light, hadn't it?

"My!" Aziraphale's heart softened considerably at the sight*. "What a dashing fellow!"

 

*Truth be told, the sight of a puppy probably would've had the same effect. Aziraphale was inherently fond of all of God's creatures, great and small and medium-sized too, even humans, who were arguably the worst of them all.

  
"You'll take him!" The girl said hopefully, and a tad desperately.

"Oh, fine." Aziraphale capitulated, putting his glasses back on and taking the basket from her hands. "Do you have care instructions?"

"In the basket." She seemed terribly relieved, Aziraphale was gladdened to see. "I can give you money, too."

"Nonsense, dear girl!" Aziraphale shook his head quickly. "A good deed is its own reward, is it not?"

"Yes. Yes! Sure. Thanks!" And with that, the girl bolted, right into the shadowy alley.

"Well then." Aziraphale peered down at the little darling, already beginning to miracle its minor cold away. "I do think you and I shall become fast friends, don't you?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Never. Again." Newt muttered, struggling out of one of Anathema's brassieres. "Never. Ever. Again."

"Aw, come on. You did quite well!" Anathema grinned, packing up the wig. "And he was right, you did look _fantastic_  in that dress."

She raised a meaningful eyebrow.

Newt blinked at her, cogs turning and priorities rearranging themselves behind his eyes. It really _was_  quite comfortable, this dress.

"Well. Maybe sometimes again..." He allowed hesitantly.

Anathema grinned, and Newt realised once more that he loved her more than anything else in the world.*

 

*It was a revelation that came upon him at least daily.

 

"Anathema, will you ma-" He started.

"Hm? Yes?"

"...er... never mind."

_One day, Pulsifer. One day._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale had made himself a tea and only just started to make up a cat bed when a familiar car pulled around the corner.

"Morning, angel!" Crowley casually* sauntered in with a bag of bread under one arm.

 

*He was getting quite good at stoically keeping up the pretence of having just been in the neighbourhood and then stepped into the bookshop on a whim, nothing else to it, _honestly._

 

"I've half a mind to Tempt some joggers at St. James's into Gluttony and Sloth, how about you come along and thwart me?" He grinned invitingly.

"Not today, dear boy." Aziraphale busied himself with fluffing up the little nest made of his favourite tartan-patterned scarf.* "I do apologise."

 

*"A hideous crime against all that is beautiful!" (Anthony J. Crowley, sometime in early March of '78)

 

"Wha- why!?" Crowley sounded taken aback, verging on hurt. "Look, I wasn't _actually_  going to do any evil wiles, if that's the problem-"

"Oh, don't be silly." Aziraphale huffed. "I've acquired a temporary pet, is all. I can't abandon the little dear."

"Hm." Crowley shuffled his feet awkwardly, clearly expecting a dismissal but unwilling to actually leave.

For all that he thought himself Smooth™, Aziraphale was perfectly capable of reading Crowley like a book in moments like these.*

 

*He thought of them as Crowley's inherent Goodness (which he _did_  possess, no matter what he might claim) surfacing, and treasured them all.

They reminded him that Crowley did like him very much, even if it wasn't quite at the same magnitude as Aziraphale's regard for him.

 

"Would you like to meet him?" Aziraphale therefore asked kindly, gesturing to the basket.

"Er. No. Thanks." Crowley grimaced. "I'm no good with animals, angel.* Except snakes, of course."

 

*Aside from his unfortunate rapport with horses, there wasn't a rodent in existence that hadn't bitten him at some point, and nearly every pet he'd ever met tended to growl at him, even if they shouldn't be capable of doing so at all.

 

Aziraphale was about to carefully start a line of gentle coaxing, when the basket hissed in a distinctly snake-like fashion.

Crowley's eyes widened behind his sunglasses, and he was at the basket in a flash, beaming delightedly as he pulled out...

...a black-and-white snake.

 

Aziraphale blinked.

 

While Crowley was canoodling happily with his new best friend, Aziraphale checked the basket, only to find no sign of the little kitten he remembered. Even the care instructions on the table plainly said "snake", and nothing else.

It _had_  been a cat, hadn't it? Itsy bitsy paws and wonky ear and all.  
...right?

 

"Who'ssssss a ssssssssweetheart?" Crowley cooed, letting the snake slide along his arm. "Who issssss? Look at you, ssssssuch a handssssssome boy!"

 

 

"Er. Indeed." Aziraphale did his very best to not look too obviously alarmed. "Only, perhaps, I should..."

He very nearly melted at the sight of Crowley's obvious affection for the animal, but there was nothing for it.

Aziraphale subtly swiped his reading gloves from the counter, slipping them over his fingers, heart first fluttering in his chest and then going entirely still, because he had no nerve for that now.

He tried to communicate _no sudden movements, please, my dear_  solely by expressively wriggling his eyebrows.*

 

*Even if Crowley had paid enough attention to him to notice, he probably only would've asked Aziraphale if he was having a stroke.

 

 _Deep breath now, Aziraphale, and brave heart!_ He told himself, and reached out.

He was going to peel the snake - _"""snake"""_ \- away from Crowley, first of all, and then very, very carefully, lock it in its basket with a sealing glyph.*

 

*Dousing it in Holy Water or some such just seemed crass. It was a little... er... animal, and not doing any harm, if it even was a demonic creature at all and Aziraphale wasn't just being silly.

 

Job done, all safe, everything spiffy. Yes.

Except, the darling little potentially-shapeshifting-terror clearly had other plans.

 

Narrowing its eyes at Aziraphale, it practically _leapt_  forward, curling around his waist, and pulling him...

 

Aziraphale slammed into Crowley's chest with a startled sound, and promptly lost all higher brain functions.

Just gone. Poof. Never to be seen again.

 

(One would think demons smelled of smoke and sulphur,* the little bit of Aziraphale's conscious that was still functioning thought dreamily.

 

*This was a misapprehension. Demons - the normal ones in Hell, at least - all smelled of sandalwood air freshener. It got _stuffy_  down there, okay!?

 

But Crowley, Crowley smelled of earth and leather. He'd probably been tending to his plants before taking the Bentley over. How... lovely.

Aziraphale melted into the involuntary embrace a little. Lovely indeed.)

 

Crowley gave a strangled laugh.*

 

*Because he was literally being strangled, Aziraphale suspected, and no other possible reason.

 

"Oh you little rassssssscal!" He scolded fondly - and a hint shakily. "Enough now, go on, let the niccccce angel go..."

The snake looked at Crowley, whose eyes were wide and pleading behind the sunglasses.

Looked at Aziraphale, who was trying very hard not to acknowledge the proximity to Crowley any more than he needed to.*

 

*That way madness lay. And inappropriate bodily reactions, ranging from a sudden hug to... _efforts_  being made.

 

Snakes aren't exactly very capable of facial expression outside of cartoons, but one could _swear_  this one was smirking.

 

It loosened its hold... only to snake its tail around their shoulder-neck areas instead, and _tightened._

 

Aziraphale yelped, half because the shape-shifting demon snake was _clearly_  trying to snap their necks, and half because his and Crowley's faces were rapidly accelerating towards each otherohgoODLORD-

A sudden burst of miracle energy - who caused it was uncertain, they'd both been panicking too much to do it intentionally - and the snake's coils were ripped away from them by an unseen force, and promptly deposited back in the basket.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Shit." Anathema breathed, a sudden realisation dawning on her. She fumbled the Prophetic Tidbit open, and yes, there it was. "Newt, put the dress back on, quickly."

"What!?" Newt flushed hotly. "Shouldn't we wait until we-"

_"NOW!"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Runne, Pulsifer, runne!_

_Don once more thy rigteous - ande fabulos - armoure,_

_For a brafe anymal may be in neede of refcue!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"It tried to _kill_  us!" Crowley exclaimed, 'et tu, serpentus'* written all over his features.

 

*He'd _warned_  Caesar. "Brutus has been looking shifty, lately", he'd said, "better skip those ides of march, eh?", but nooooooo....

It was still a bit of a sore point for Crowley. Humans never _listened._

 

Aziraphale quickly slapped a glyph - hastily scribbled onto a silk handkerchief - onto the basket, and instantly jerked back, hackles raised.

(Well. Wings bristling, if one wanted to go with the correct metaphor.)

"It tried to KILL us!" Crowley repeated, a hint more shrill.

"Discorporate." Aziraphale corrected, pulling off his gloves and dabbing his forehead with them. "And yes, it did."

Something hardened in his eyes, the Principality rearing its head under the guise of the bookseller.

"Dear boy, I suggest you keep your distance for this next bit." He pushed his sleeves back, flexing his fingers. "There may be a splash zone."

"...what?"

Aziraphale plucked up his still untouched cup of tea, muttering blessings under his breath.

An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. Whatever this was had tried to _hurt Crowley,_  and Aziraphale wasn't in a forgiving mood when such things happened.*

 

*He'd once miracled a mugger into the Sahara desert for breaking Crowley's wrist. He wasn't _proud_  of it, exactly, but he'd done it, and that was that.

 

And this had _obviously_  been an assassination attempt, extreme action seemed perfectly justified.

Crowley backed away, eyes fixed in horror and fascination on the cup of liquid that was steadily turning into Holy Tea.*

 

*It might not be as potent as pure Holy Water, but one must make do, mustn't one.

 

"Angel..." He breathed, both amazed and just a little scared. "You-"

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a rapid knock at the door.

They exchanged a look.

Aziraphale very, very carefully put the cup down, and went over to open it.

"Hello!" The girl was back, dress rumpled and hair almost looking as if it was on backwards. How strange. "Sorry, changed my mind, need it back, ever so sorry!"

She practically barrelled past them, making a beeline for the basket.

"Young lady!" Aziraphale snapped. "I have no _IDEA_  what you're playing at, but your... your _pet..."_

"Sorry!" The girl babbled, panic in her eyes. "Really, really so sorry!"

"Oh, you _will_  be..." Crowley growled.

The girl squeaked, and, basket pressed to her - really quite flat - chest, ran as fast as her heels - which she was a little unsteady in - could carry her.

Crowley moved as if to follow her, but Aziraphale stopped him. The poor girl had clearly been terrified out of her mind from the start, she wasn't to blame for her part in whatever scheme she'd gotten herself involved in.

He went to dispose of the Holy-ish Tea while Crowley hovered anxiously in the doorway, and then they went out to the park to feed the ducks.

No point in letting an assassination attempt ruin your day, is there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Snake was curled up, feeling the basket jostle. Thank his Master it was as good as over.

"This one was an absolute disaster," said one of the humans Snake's Master liked somewhat, The Witch One. "They nearly... well. Could've gone badly."

Snake could feel her mate, The Nervous One, nod beside her. That, perhaps, was one of the advantages of being Snake - the heat-vision.

Certainly better than those brief, awful moments he'd been Cat, Snake thought with a shudder running down his spine.*

 

*Which, considering the current length of his spine, was quite the endeavour. What a committed shudder.

 

"So, no luck?" Snake perked up at his Master's voice, washing over him like a balm. "Dog, we were depending on you! Bad boy!"

The lid was lifted from his basket, and in the blink of an eye, Snake returned to his favourite form.

Dog whined, remorsefully gazing up at his Master.

He'd done just as instructed, Dog had. His Master had shown him a scene from a movie, which had involved two dogs on leashes, and...

(Yes, admittedly, no leash had been involved, and Dog had been Snake, but close enough.)

He'd _tried._

But he clearly hadn't tried hard enough.

Dog honestly felt quite terrible about having failed his Master.*

 

*Snake, curiously enough, had been somewhat indifferent to it.

(Form truly does shape nature. As Cat, he'd mostly wanted to glare arrogantly and lick his own privates in full view of as many people as possible.)

 

He was a Bad Dog, unworthy of his Master's love! He might as well just give up and leave the role of Master's Pet to Tim the convent goat.*

 

*With how many Black Masses he'd witnessed, Tim was, in fact, slightly more unholy than Dog at this point, though the tide might yet turn if Dog conveniently forgot he was housebroken again.

 

Dog experienced a brief moment of existential crisis in his little Dog heart, until he felt himself being picked up and snuggled.

"S'alright, Dog." His Master told him benevolently. "You did your best. Good boy!"

Dog yipped happily, letting himself be snuggled by Master's Friends, The Tough One, The Boring One, and The One Who Always Smelled Interesting, as well, and hoped he could serve his Master better the next time.

Such was Dog's duty, after all. A Good Boy through and through.*

 

*Dog still remembered a time when he'd wanted nothing more than to be a truly horrid Bad Boy.

He'd think back to it on occasion, and every time, without fail, be quite relieved that he wasn't  _like that_ anymore...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all acknowledge that Dog is a Very Good Boy™ indeed, for doing what we all want: actually, physically knocking their heads together! (And at great personal risk, too.)  
> Not that it helped, but he _tried._
> 
> They weren't even that stupid in this one, were they? Except for thinking Snake wanted to discorporate them, I suppose.
> 
> Today's Nutterian Translation is brought to you by Holy Tea. Drink responsibly!
> 
> Put on a dress, Newt  
> And makeup. A _lot_ of makeup, just trust me on that,  
> Until those two idiots won't recognise you  
> And bring them the Hellhound  
> (Who can shape-shift by the way, isn't that neat?)  
> And like in that Disney movie  
> With 101 Dalmatians  
> He'll bind them together  
> While pretending to be a snake.
> 
> \---
> 
> Run, boy, run!  
> Get back into drag  
> And save that doggo!


	10. A Night At The Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who needs sleep? I don't!  
> Not when a new chapter must be made ready...  
> Do enjoy! ^-^

The Bentley was standing right in front of the theatre's entrance,* waiting for Aziraphale and Crowley to return from their play, peacefully minding its own business.

 

*Parking restrictions, just like speed limits, was something that Crowley believed happened to other people, or, if it did happen to him, could easily be rectified.

 

It was currently pondering gear-stick philosophy, halfway through penning its manifesto on Automobile Existentialism by making use of the crumpled tissues in the glove compartment.

 

(The fact that these consistently showed up in even the most well-tended compartments actually was briefly discussed in the chapter "The Rise of Glove Compartment Paper and its Vital Importance for Early Mercedian Literature", the Bentley was rather proud of that one...

...or had been, until the charming angel of its driver's acquaintance had blown his nose with it last February.*

 

*The Bentley, possessed of a most forgiving nature, bore him no ill will for it, and had, indeed, spontaneously developed heated seats for the occasion, if just to ease its driver's worry that the angel might've caught a chill.)

 

Shifting gears, the Bentley mused now, was an exploration of the Self, but also an adaption to one's Fellow Car, the voluntary-yet-guided integration into the traffical society, a state of...

It paused.

A strange, foreboding sense of... not danger, no, but power, raw and barely checked power, was creeping down its roof.

The Bentley briefly contemplated the necessity of perhaps spontaneously developing a car alarm system - previously thought to be an extravagance reserved for the more youthful generations of vehicles - until it recognised the intent behind it as perfectly benign.

Quite the relief, it was sure. There had been children present on the street.*

 

*The Bentley was rather fond of children, in the abstract sort of way an absent great-aunt was. Quite enamoured with the concept, happy to observe them closer from time to time, but with no immediate desire to have them drool upon one's fine leather upholstery.

 

Now, hold on a moment, the Bentley thought. Children? At this time of night!? Why, were it possessed of the necessary abilities, it would give the negligent parents what for!

Mentally putting away its manifesto until a further date, the Bentley paid close attention to the four young persons ambling down the street, with none in attendance but a rather scraggly mutt.

Scarcely appropriate protection, even in the West End. Shudder to think what might happen to the poor mites in Soho!

The Bentley was quite immersed in its quiet outrage - and fretting - so immersed, in fact, that it only realised rather belatedly that the young scallywags were currently seeking something out - it itself, in fact!

"Hullo!" The lad at the head of the group declared. "I'm Adam. Remember me?"

 

The Bentley most certainly did not! As previously established, it didn't tend to familiarise itself with children beyond the vague acknowledgement that they were rather darling and potentially messy.

Why, as far as the Bentley knew, it had never even transported anyone under the age of...

The age of...

The Bentley recalled, with sudden, intense clarity, a basket on its backseat and its driver in a state of utmost distress, a little more than a decade ago.

Come to think of it, that further explained the strange sense of power and its uncanny familiarity...

"It's okay if you don't," the boy continued. "This is Pepper-" he gestured to a formidable young lady imbued with the kind of spirit one rarely saw even in the heartiest of male persons "-Brian-" a likely sort of young fellow with a layer of grit all about his person "-and Wensley." Bespectacled and somewhat serious - a lad after the Bentley's own fuel pump!

The dog chose this opportunity to bark quite uproariously.

"Oh yeah. And that's Dog!" The boy Adam finished enthusiastically.

 _Charmed,_ _I'_ _m sure_ , the Bentley thought, but made no outward sign of understanding. It had never been in the habit of doing so, perfectly content to be objectified to a reasonable degree.

"Adam? You _do_ know that's just a car..." The young Ms. Pepper chanced to say. "...don't you?"

"Oh, it can understand us, trust me!" He turned to the Bentley. "Right?"

The Bentley studiously pretended to be quite invested in observing a nearby nightingale* on its perch.

 

*It was stubbornly NOT singing, and getting quite frustrated with the world in general and its assigned lovers specifically, to be entirely frank.

 

"Silly thing." Adam gently boxed its bonnet.

The Bentley would've winced if it could, since the hit was precariously close to where the young witch and her velocipede had damaged it once upon a time.*

 

*Not a scratch could be seen, now, but the Bentley would always know it was there...

 

"We wouldn't bother you," the boy simply barged on despite the lack of response, while the other young ones shared dubious glances, "but, see, there's that prophecy, y'see, so we're on a Rescue Mission. And Wesley read about superminimal messing in his comic-"

 _"Wonders of Nature and Science,_ it's quite good." Young Wensleydale felt obliged to add, even if it _was_  for the convenience of a car. "An' it's called 'subliminamal messaging', Adam."

"Whatever. And we thought that might work, and Anathema, who's the Best, by the way, found the right prophecy in Agnes's book, and that's why we're here now."

 

The Bentley was quite sure that diatribe was meant to make sense, but it would be dashed if it knew _how._

 

"It's about Aziraphale and Crowley, you see, and how they love each other so really very much." The lad explained further. "We think they'd be very happy if they got together, but we'd need your help for that."

 

Now, _that_ gave the Bentley pause.

It was, of course, well aware of their more-than-fond regard for each other, it was quite impossible not to be, and Master Aziraphale would make a worthy companion for a man-shaped being of the likes of Anthony J. Crowley, oh yes.

 

It had not always been so; during the early days of their mutual acquaintance, when the Bentley had been barely off the assembly line and was first introduced to the "stupid, lovely angel" its driver liked to rhapsodise about, it had been sceptical of their suit, to say the least.

Not that there was any fault to find with Master Aziraphale, who the Bentley considered a most formidable fellow of the highest distinction; no, it had been Master Crowley, tending towards the bohémien - to say the least - flighty and willful and far less opportune a match than Master Aziraphale might be able to make if he gave it a sporting try.

He was... well, passable of face at least - perhaps even attractive to those who preferred the slightly ripened gentleman - and had a steady income with his bookshop, which made him quite the delectable prospect, all things considered.*

 

*Here, it showed that the Bentley, for all its unusual skills, was still very much a product of its time.

 

And yet, the Bentley was forced to reconsider the first time it witnessed firsthand the strength of sentiment between them - in which they were quite evenly matched - and when it was slowly revealed that Master Aziraphale had absolutely no intention of settling for any other, be they better or worse, it conceded that two hearts yearning so earnestly towards each other should not be kept asunder.*

 

*Especially seeing as they were achieving that _quite formidably_ themselves.

 

To return to the point at hand, the Bentley quite agreed that an Arrangement of a marital nature would further both their overall happiness and good spirit, and had, in the past, hoped most ardently for such development to occur.

Except it had not.

Not ever.

The Bentley prided itself in being a calm and collected sort of automobile, but, _for Ford's sake_ \- pardon its Peugeotian - enough was enough.

 

"You'll just have to do what we say, and it'll turn out well, really!" Adam affected a smile more radiant than the Bentley's own fog lights. "And? Will you help?"

The Bentley considered playing dumb for a moment... but only a rather brief one, its mind already very much made up.

The blaupunkt in its dashboard whirred to life, and the dulcet tones of the Verdi cassette tape still inside rang out into the night.

 _"It's so easy now,"_ sang the male lead, a talented tenor by the name of Signore Mercury, _"'cause you got friends you can trust!"_

 

* * *

 

 

 _Haveth the Blacke Horfe_  
_Of Bendéd Ley_  
_Telle its ryder moft plainly_  
_And witthe-out cessatione_  
_The Truth in Musike;_  
_So his brayne may knowe_  
_'Neath his concius_  
_And acte in accordanf witth it._

 

* * *

 

 

Note to self, Crowley told himself as he resisted the urge to bash his face against the Bentley's steering wheel. Never. Again. Ask. Aziraphale. "and, what did you think of the play, then?".

It was one of those non-questions that most people would be so polite as to only answer with a distracted "oh, quite nice, but not my thing" and, if they went above and beyond the call of duty, add "Christ imagery was a bit on the nose" and then let it be, since they knew very well they'd only been asked in a token effort to alleviate an awkward silence.

(Which Crowley found it necessary to do, since he had this strange compulsion to blurt "I love you!" into prolonged silences as of late.)

Aziraphale, oh. Aziraphale was _clearly_  unfamiliar with the concept of the courtesy non-question. He took it as a sincere "please, do enlighten me about your opinion on the matter", which, again, it was _decidedly not._

So, seeing as Aziraphale was vastly intelligent, a bit of a bastard, and had Opinions On How Things Should Be, And That Is Not It*, the tirade he launched into tuned out to be quite lengthy, and mostly spent lovingly plucking the play apart, burning the shreds, and taking great care to salt the earth underneath the ashes°.

 

*Quite possibly part of why the majority of people kept assuming he was British.

 

°Its author, Ms. Brodley of Chiswick, for the Interested Reader, suddenly collapsed in the middle of her evening meal, weeping uncontrollably and not knowing why.

 

It was terrible, it was vicious, and most of all, it was very, very long-winded.

Crowley didn't actually think the play deserved it, to be honest. What he remembered had been bearable at worst, and Aziraphale, at the time, had seemed to rather enjoy it.

(The fact that he had paid enough attention to the angel to know that for a fact probably explained why the play itself was so very fuzzy in his recollection.)

 

And none of that - the cruelty of it, the pointlessness, the sheer and really _really_  not negligible LENGTH of the rant - was the problem here.

 _THAT_ was the problem. That it _wasn't._

That he could've listened to Aziraphale waging a verbal crusade against a poor unsuspecting play for the rest of his existence - or at least until he slammed the brakes (mostly for dramatic effect, the Bentley managed quite well without him, after all) and snogged him against the dashboard for all he was worth.

 

 

That Aziraphale, just by virtue of being so endearingly _Aziraphallic*,_ could keep him utterly spellbound.

 

*If the Esteemed Reader has never had the pleasure of experiening a genuine Freudian Slip before, we invite them to consider why Crowley didn't choose the descriptor _Aziraphalese_ or _Aziraphalian,_ and let them come to their own conclusions.

 

That Crowley was the greatest fool to ever have existed.*

 

*Including Foolum the Foolish of Foolbury Hill, who had been a chartered accountant, believe it or not.

 

"...and the monologue!" Aziraphale scoffed gleefully. "Absolutely-"

"Ghastly." Crowley said quickly.

He had to put a stop to this before he forgot himself and crawled over into Aziraphale's lap with the polite request to please tell him his _exact_  thoughts on _'Waiting for Godot',_ no quarter given.

"Just like the rest. Of course."

"Oh yes." Aziraphale sniffed, tugging his scarf back into place and only succeeding in looking even more ruffled. "Next time, Crowley, you will let _me_  choose the play. No offense, but extraordinarily cultured you are not."

Banter. Insults. Adversariness! This, Crowley could deal with.

He groaned theatrically. "Mercy, angel! You always choose the boring, sad ones."

"Philistine." Aziraphale said bitingly. "The tragedy is an art form!"

"A boring one."

"Only because _you_  have the attention span of a goldfish suffering from ADHD..."

"Oh, oh, and, knowing you, it'll be in a foreign language, too, so we'll have the infinite pleasure of mixing with pretentious gits AND having to try and guess half the words!*"

 

*Babel had not passed Aziraphale and Crowley by unnoticed. They had plenty of _time_  to learn languages, of course, and, if need really be, could miracle a bit of universal understanding their way; but, despite all that, they were still woefully inadequate in most contemporary human languages.

They change so quickly, Crowley would say. Not worth the bother.

I can serviceably read in French, Aziraphale would add. And that is enough. Besides, their pronunciation is basically arbitrary, isn't it? Such an unnecessary fuss. Not for me, no thank you.

 

"We'll go to the opera then." Aziraphale offered a compromise with the patience of a saint, which was just barely disguising the annoyance of everyone who had made Crowley's acquaintance for more than a few minutes. "Musical theatre. Then you can at least enjoy the sound."

"...of music? Angel, if I'd known you were pining so for Heaven..."

"Dear me, no." Aziraphale shuddered.

 _"Edelweeeeeiß,"_ Crowley began singing softly, _"eeeeedelweiß..."_

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale glared, though there was obviously another shudder building up inside him. "Now you're just being childish!"

Crowley stuck out his tongue at him.

Aziraphale - after a brief grimace of _"oh, I really_ really _shouldn't"_ \- retaliated in kind*.

 

*Well, nearly. Aziraphale's tongue was shorter than Crowley's, and had less tips.

 

"Angel!" Crowley exclaimed delightedly. "Are you... are you _stooping to my level!?"_

"We'd never see eye to eye otherwise." Aziraphale retorted airily, but there was a little smirk hiding in the very corners of his mouth.

 _Old bastard._  Crowley felt a sudden surge of emotion in his little black heart, probably very reminiscent of what Aziraphale had felt once upon a time in Tadfield.

(Of course the bloody angel had been the only one to pick up on that one. Crowley was, after all, quite used to 'intense loving affection' on the daily, and routinely chalked it up to Aziraphale inadvertently doing something infinitely endearing.*

 

*Like exist.)

 

Another silence descended on the Bentley, but it was far, far worse than the uncomfortable one before Crowley had asked his initial question.

No, this was a _comfortable_  silence, with Aziraphale radiating mild fondness beside him, and Crowley's chest shaking with the wild, desperate pounding of his heart, and it seemed to invite him, beg him, plead with him, to reach over and quietly lace Aziraphale's fingers with his.

 

Which would, obviously, _not_  do.

 

Demons were encouraged to give in to their base desires, but this wasn't exactly base, and so much more than just desire, he couldn't, couldn't possibly.

Besides, nobody had ever told Crowley what to do after the giving in part, and he rather suspected the answer would be "skip town and wait until everybody who remembers is dead" if he ever got around to asking.

(He knew for a fact that Hastur had once patiently waited out the extinction of an entire human subspecies.*

 

*Why exactly, nobody knew. The Neanderthals had taken his secrets to their graves.)

 

Aziraphale was immortal, so this was obviously not an option, and that wasn't even taking into account that Crowley rather doubted life without Aziraphale would be worth living. (Or existence worth existing, semantics.)

 

Distraction. That was what he needed now.

Crowley fumbled for a good tape in the glove compartment, hoping to distract himself from entirely unproductive thoughts of frumpy angels.

Turandot. Puccini. Yeah, that'll do.

He jammed it into the blaupunkt, and pressed play.

 _"Love of my life..."_ Princess Mercury launched into her aria*, and Crowley nearly gave in and let his head drop onto the steering wheel.

 

*The cassette in question had already spent three and a half weeks in the glove compartment, next to a tin of biscuits Aziraphale had been snacking from for half a decade, a packet of mints Crowley was rather sure had been around since the early bronze age, and a neat heap of scribbled-on tissues full of barely comprehensible philosophy.

 

"Meh. Don't like that song." He announced, voice only a hint shaky, and hastily fast-forwarded.

 _"I really love you... you're my best friend"_ , The Unnamed Prince (only known under his initials F.M.) proclaimed to the people of Peking.

Someone Up (or Down) There still had it out for him, Crowley thought morosely.

"Eh. Boring."

Aziraphale was throwing him a confused glance, but Crowley really didn't have the nerve, stabbing the eject button.

The blaupunkt chose this point to jam, repeating _"love you >click< love you >click< love you >click<"_ ad nauseam.

"Oh, for Someone's..." Crowley gave it a good thumping. It still refused to work properly.

"Is something wrong?" Aziraphale asked mildly.

"Nah, angel, that's what it's supposed to- _yes,_  of course something's wrong!"

Crowley leaned in very close to the dashboard.

"Listen here." He hissed very quietly. "We've always gotten along well enough, you and me, eh? Let's keep it that way. Just because Adam brought you back with free will* doesn't mean you ought to get cocky, now, does it?"

 

*Crowley had of course been aware that the Bentley had a good deal more sentience than its peers, but had thought himself responsible for it and the car incapable of doing anything with it prior to Antichrist ressurection.

Let it be clear that he'd been wrong, on both accounts.

The Bentley had been sentient the moment it rolled off the assembly line, if not before, and the near-death experience had merely helped it accept this sentience more, and inspired the penning of the manifest.

 

The Bentley showed no sign of understanding, and the blaupunkt garbled on, despite Aziraphale, wearing the single most adorable confused frown Crowley had ever seen, pressing any button on it, some even simultaneously.

 _Love you,_  Crowley thought, and quite literally had to bite his tongue. Which, with teeth like his, ouch.

He stepped on the brakes.

He could reach out now, actually snog Aziraphale against the dash, he could, maybe he should, _"love you"_ the blaupunkt insisted...

 

"Your stop, angel!" Crowley burst out before he did or said things he could never take back. "Come on, out you get!"

"We're still two streets away, aren't we?" Aziraphale glanced out the window, then down at his hands, briefly at Crowley, away again. "And, I was wondering if you might, perhaps, like to have a little drink at-"

"OH DEAR, I just remembered I forgot to water my plants!" Crowley exclaimed very believably and not suspicious at all. "Gotta go, another time. Night!"

He all but shoved Aziraphale out, and sped off into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Crisis barely averted.

"No thanks to you." He hissed at the Bentley, which innocently let the tape play out normally.

Every song was focused heavily on romance, and Crowley could _swear_  the music got louder when the word love was mentioned.

"Not. Helping." He growled coldly.

 _"Love you"_ echoed in his head, and this time, he actually did bang his head against the steering wheel.

 

* * *

 

"And?" Adam crouched down near the Bentley's bonnet. "How'd it go?"

The Bentley's carrosserie heaved as close to a sigh as it could get.  
Another tape was engaged, Mozart this time.

_"Another one bites the dust..."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might as well point it out now:  
> All the song lines I use in chapters and titles are of course Queen's and don't belong to me, just like everything from Good Omens doesn't.  
> There, obligatory disclaimer, I hope my paranoia will abate now... ;)
> 
> Nutterian Translation, critically read by the greatly acclaimed thinker B. Entley:  
> Tell the black car  
> (Which is a Bentley, by the way)  
> To tell Crowley plainly  
> And frequently, without ANY pause  
> How he really feels through music;  
> So that his idiot brain will know  
> Subconsciously  
> And then blurt out something stupid.
> 
> So many comments!!! <3 <3 <3


	11. But Not Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, slightly belated chapter... mostly because this is one I wrote entirely from scratch based on a comment on chapter 9, so you have the Esteemed Fallowsthorn to thank (and blame) for this!
> 
> Nugget's first responses after reading some scenes suggest I should be warning for Feels in this one, so, be prepared, I suppose?

"Alright." Anathema slapped a file card on the table. "If _this one_  doesn't work, I don't know _what_  will."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Dryve them fromm theyr houfes_

_Witth threat of fyrey ande blacke Deatth_

_So that they taketh room togethere_

_Ande, yea, behold:_

_Onely a syngle beddestead ther be!_

_Ande Love shall breake fortth from the Angell_

_Ande be professeth unto Crowwely_

_Inne the darke of that nyght_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"'I need to water my plants'," Crowley muttered, then muffled a groan in his hands. "Of all the stupid, thoughtless..."

He'd been beating himself up over that for the last few hours, and was likely going to continue to do so for a while. He would've thought himself smoother than that, honestly.*

 

*Evidently, he wasn't, but Crowley needed the illusion right now.

 

It had been nothing but a silly song! Augmented with desperate longing since the dawn of time, sure, but he'd gotten through worse without loosing his composure.*

 

*Exhibit A being the first time he'd gotten Aziraphale chocolates of the good, expensive kind.

(There had been _moans,_  and ceaseless professions of gratitude. Crowley'd nearly screamed.)

 

"WATER MY PLANTS! Idiot, bloody idiot!" Crowley kicked a nearby pot. The fern in it shivered in Pavlovian terror, and hastily grew an extra inch, even though it wasn't the one being screamed at.

The phone rang, a little tentatively, as if it didn't dare to interrupt Crowley's self-flaggelation.

Probably Aziraphale, about to tell him not to bother showing up for feeding the ducks, because he'd connected the dots and had come to the conclusion that their friendship was through.

Crowley contemplated what would hurt more, being told directly or having it preserved on the ansaphone forever, and decided it would destroy him either way, might as well choose the option that didn't require him getting up.

The ansaphone whirred into action.

"-ou always do this!? Don't- oh, you've stopped talking, jolly good. Look, Crowley, before we go out to the park today, I've, er, got a bit of a problem, can you come over earlier? ... Why aren't you saying anything? Is your telephone not working? Do call me ba- BEEP!"

Crowley scrambled up, car keys in hand and halfway out the flat before the ansaphone had even clicked back all the way into silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A bit of a problem. _Bit of a problem_. Aziraphale's bits of problems, Crowley knew from experience, could range anywhere from "I may have misplaced my second-favourite (and third-ugliest) sweater vest" to "there's an alligator in the bookshop, and it's trying to chew my leg off".*

 

*No, they'd never figured out how it had gotten this far inland, nor where it had gone after Crowley scared it off, since they'd had more pressing matters to attend to at the time.

(Luckily, Aziraphale's leg had reattached cleanly, and, which he'd considered more of a concern at the time, not bled over any of his favourite books.)

 

Maybe the idiot angel had burned the shop down again. Or whoever had sent the assassin-snake was giving it another try? Really, could be anything short of a second Apocalypse.

(Well. He said 'short of', but, really, nothing could be excluded.)

At least he'd said nothing of ended friendships, so, even if he found him bleeding out amidst a circle of baffled paramedics waiting for the zoo's expert on alligators to arrive, Crowley would at least be able to shoulder through them while shouting _"that's my friend, let me to him!!!"_ , that was something.

Crowley practically hurtled himself out of the car, not even bothering to will the door closed behind himself.*

 

*The Bentley, equally agitated, obligingly did it for him, before returning to its quiet fretting.

 

"Waswrong!?" He gasped.

"Oh, my dear, did you race all the way here?" Aziraphale tsk-ed, standing in the shop's entrance and looking perfectly alright and not chewed-on whatsoever, that was a good sign right there. "You really needn't have. Did you know your 'phone is doing some very strange-"

Crowley gave him the kind of stare over the top of his sunglasses that could discorporate if it tried just a hint harder.

"Er. Well. Yes. To the matter of hand." Aziraphale fidgeted. "I've got a bit of a rat problem."

Crowley blinked incredulously.*

 

*He only very rarely indulged in blinking, but sometimes situations necessitated it.

Like this one. This one very much did.

 

"Seems like there's an infestation in the neighbourhood. And now those pests took the corners off my first edition of-"

"Tragedy, yeah." Crowley waved him off dismissively. Aziraphale looked quite put out at it. "And what, if I may ask, were you expecting _me_  to do about it?"

"Eat them." Aziraphale responded immediately, as if it was quite obvious.

"...what." Crowley said.*

 

*Not that he was fundamentally opposed to the eating of rodents, his day had just been quite the emotional rollercoaster so far, and he tended to get quite nauseous on those.

 

"Well, being, as you are, a snake, I assumed you'd be quite efficient at it. Please?"

Crowley rather felt like blinking again.

Setting aside how _incredibly_  racist - snakist? - that was...

(There was a bit of a rant traipsing around Crowley's brain, but it probably wasn't wise to get into a state of heightened emotion while things were still rather... raw... on his end. He might _admit things.)_

"Why don't you just miracle them away?"

"I've tried. Wily things. Just keep coming back, rather reminds me of the Plagues in the olden day." Aziraphale threw a rather unsettled look over his shoulder, no doubt imagining frogs and locusts all over his books. "And it's not exactly easy, miracling something _out_  of existence. Into, oh, that's quite simple, just find an empty space and put it there. Out? You need to take all the little cells and atoms together, for a start, and let me tell you, that's quite fiendishly difficult to do with the five rats presumably hiding somewhere on these premises, _quite-_ "

"How about we call an exterminator, then?" Crowley suggested, since he really didn't feel like having dirty city rats for lunch, but knew very well he'd give in if Aziraphale just said please again.

"I did." Aziraphale sighed. "They said I'd have to leave for at least 24 hours, and where would I even go?"

 

 _No._  
_Crowley, no._  
_Don't be an idiot._  
_This is the dangerous situation of dangerous situations. Don't do it._

 

"You could always come back to mine?" Crowley said.

 

_Oh great job. You **dunce.**_

 

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to blink.

And then his face broke out into a relieved smile.

"Oh, thank you, dear boy!" He reached behind himself, producing a suitcase. "I've already packed my most favourite books. Shall we?"

 

...Crowley had the distinct impression he'd been led into something there.

 

"You know, you could've just _said_  'I'll have to stay at yours for the night'," Crowley informed him, holding the Bentley's passenger side door open. "Was my face at the eating suggestion suitably funny, at least?"

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean." Aziraphale settled into his seat with a palpable air of innocence. "Besides, it's very impolite to invite oneself, isn't it?"

"Bastard." Crowley said fondly, putting any and all snogging thoughts into a strongbox and throwing it as far into his subconscious as it would go. "To mine then, angel?"

"Oh, why the rush?" Aziraphale awkwardly maneuvered his suitcase onto the backseat, and plucked a biscuit from the tin in the glove compartment.

Crowley was briefly struck by how at home the angel was in _his_  Bentley. That was simultaneously wonderful and a little terrifying.

(The strongbox of forbidden thoughts promptly rose a few hundred metres from the depths of Crowley's subconscious.)

"I think there's a new exhibition at the National Gallery, how about that?" Aziraphale suggested lightly.

"Okay," Crowley said, as if he'd ever say anything else when Aziraphale was concerned.

They drove off, and the Bentley - quite relieved at being ensured of Master Aziraphale's wellbeing - played _"Crazy Little Thing Called Love"_ , to Crowley's infinite chagrin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An exhibition was enjoyed, a dinner eaten, and _"Take My Breath Away"_ played on the ride back to Crowley's apartment.*

 

*Aziraphale had asked why Crowley was glaring so pointedly at the blaupunkt - "the car gramophone" - but he'd successfully managed to ignore that question until it went away.

 

And then, they were stopped just down the road from Crowley's building by a couple of rather surly, severely undercaffeinated police officers.

(Yes, they'd had four cups each, but that wasn't even anywhere _near_  enough. This was a six-cup evening, at the very least.)

"Sorry gentlemen." The more bored one - though not by much - droned. "Unexploded WWII bomb excavated at nearby digging site. Got the disposal units in, but all buildings evacuated until further notice. Please turn your car around, thank you."

(He managed to say all this while radiating quiet contempt and the wish for them to leave and never return. Aziraphale was grudgingly impressed by his flawless form, and wished he could come across even half as hostile when his books were concerned.)

"We'll be fine." Crowley muttered irritatedly. "Get out of the way."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped. "They're _officers of the law!"_

Crowley shot him a look that clearly communicated how he could scarcely care less, and then turned back to the bobbies with one of his toothier grins.

_"Please."_

"Turn around now, gentlemen." The slightly less bored - but rather more sullen - one reiterated.

"Or _what?"_ Crowley hissed.*

 

*To put the minds of our American readers at rest: British police officers can, in fact, be talked to in a manner similar to Crowley's without having to fear for one's life, on account of the fact that they don't carry firearms and aren't usually in the habit of assaulting people with undue brutality.

(We are aware of how outlandish a concept this must seem like to the Esteemed Reader across the pond - NOT shooting people, whatever is the world coming to - but hope they will bear with us nonetheless.)

 

"Or nothing." Aziraphale stepped in firmly, before their instructions could be stubbornly repeated. "We'll be on our way, thank you ever so much."

He threw a pointed glare at Crowley, who would forever deny that he relented immediately, throwing the Bentley into reverse and driving off in the opposite direction.

Where to, well, that would require some more consideration.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So." Aziraphale said, as they stood parked under a 'no parking' sign that was having a minor existential crisis at being so blatantly ignored. "My bookshop is being exterminated. Your flat is right in the middle of a temporary evacuation zone. Shall we just... drive around until morning?"

"Nah." Crowley suppressed a yawn. "You might not need sleep, but _I do_. Rather gotten into bad habits there."

"You could sleep in the car." Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley's indignant look in response nipped that idea in the bud.

Getting a hotel room it was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The hotel they ultimately found themselves at was, on Crowley's insistence, rather more nice than the one Aziraphale had stayed at in the night after the Apocalypse - but that was a spectacularly low bar in the first place.

It was also nearly full - apparently there was some kind of conference going on - but with the luck of the devil and an angel combined, one room was, amazingly, still free.*

 

*Aziraphale assumed Crowley had ensured this, while Crowley thought it was Aziraphale's miracle. Neither of them considered outside interference for even a second.

 

There was, however, one issue with that...

 

"Oh, _Hell_  no." Crowley blurted out, the moment he stepped into the room, Aziraphale a little behind, what with lugging his suitcase of books around and all.

There was only one bed.

And it wasn't even the broad, luxurious, we-might-as-well-be-sleeping-in-different-rooms-we're-that-far-apart kind of bed.

It was the type of double bed that was really a single with delusions of grandeur, the kind that might just about let you start out separate, but will eventually find you curled around each other for fear of falling off in the middle of the night.

He was _not_  sleeping with Aziraphale on that. He wasn't. He _couldn't!_

"Are you- oh." Aziraphale had caught up to him. "Oh."

Oh indeed, Crowley thought, oscillating between longing and terror, and trying very hard not to show either.

Aziraphale was an angel after all, pure and innocent. The implications probably hadn't even occured to him.*

 

*Said implications had occurred to Aziraphale alright, and he was busy frantically de-occuring them best he could while keeping up a mask of calm.

 

"I'll go down and complain." Crowley offered awkwardly. What _had_  that receptionist been thinking!? "Have them give us another room."

"Oh no, there's no need to make a fuss, dear!" Aziraphale said quickly. "I wouldn't want anyone turned out on our behalf. You may have the bed, it's not like I will sleep anyway."

Well, that was... marginally better, yes, but Crowley's stomach still hadn't quite untied itself from its knot.

The strongbox of feelings was precariously bobbing up and down just below the surface, so Crowley kicked it back down, for all the good it did, and went to help Aziraphale with his books.

It was going to be a long, looong night...

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Aziraphale was settled comfortably at the foot end of the bed, miracled-up cocoa and book in hand,* Crowley had very, _very_  nearly gotten to grips with the situation, and might eventually start forcing his heart - not so much beating anymore as downright _buzzing_  in his chest - to calm down a tad.

 

*He was halfway through one of Adam's additions, _'The Edinburgh Explorers and the Big Meanie-Beanie'_ , which he'd intended to read only to see if it justified the truly exorbitant price tag, and now found himself quite invested in.

 

Eventually. Not quite yet, no.

Usually, Crowley slept much closer to the nude, but like Hell was he going to repulse Aziraphale again, so he only chucked his suit jacket and tie.*

 

*The snakeskin shoes stayed. Crowley wasn't quite sure _himself_  if they were _actually_  shoes, to be entirely honest, and at this point he was too afraid to check...

 

"I'm warning you now," Crowley mumbled, slipping under the blanket and trying to get comfortable with the warm weight of Aziraphale just on the other end of the bed. "I'm a heavy sleeper, won't wake up. For _anything."_

Crowley reconsidered.

"Well. Bucket of water will do, probably, but the legions of Hell and Heaven better be storming the hotel in that case, are we clear on this?"

"Noted." Aziraphale said mildly, flipping the page. Little Eddie McCrimmon was just leading the Explorers into battle against the Meanie-Beanie, and it was ever so exciting. "Water in case of emergency only."

"Right then." Crowley fluffed up his pillow, slowly settling into something vaguely comfortable at a safe distance from Aziraphale.

Despite some minor racing thoughts, his eyes were already sliding shut.

"Night, angel." He murmured sleepily.

"Sweet dreams, my dear." Aziraphale smiled over his reading glasses. "And may angels watch over you as you sleep."

Crowley cracked one eye open. "That's a strange thing to say, coming from you."

Aziraphale innocently turned another page, strongly radiating his very own brand of smug angelic bastard.

"Creep." Crowley mumbled affectionately, and then he went to sleep.

Snap, just like that.*

 

*Even if he had taken a shine to it, Crowley's 'sleeping' wasn't really like actual, human sleep. There were subtle differences, like his heart rate slowing less, the fact that he never, ever moved, not even the tiniest twitch; and that falling asleep was a rather sudden thing.

Awake one moment, not anymore the next.

Regrettably, it didn't quite work the other way. Crowley was terrible with mornings.

 

Aziraphale smiled to himself. How infinitely endearing.

His heart swelled in his chest, and he very firmly told it _none of that, now_  before returning to his reading.

 

And yet, he found himself ever so slightly distracted.

Oh, fine, a _lot_  distracted.

Could he be blamed? Even just sitting at the foot end, they were effectively occupying the same bed, and Crowley was _right there._

Aziraphale slipped a bookmark between the pages, and set the book down to finish later, when he could properly focus on the well-spun dramatic struggle against the main antagonist.

And then. Well. Then he watched over* Crowley for a bit.

 

*Stared at, technically, but angels liked to euphemise - they smote, rather than murdered, for instance, and Crowley was quite right to scoff at that - and in this regard, Aziraphale was as angelic as the best of them.

 

"S'rafel..." Crowley suddenly muttered.*

 

*No, Crowley didn't normally talk in his sleep, not at all. But Antichrists had no qualms causing a little exception or two, if nothing else good was happening.

 

"Did you say something, dear boy?" Aziraphale got up, using this as justification to observe from a little closer.

"Si'phale." Crowley mumbled, and then he broke out in the widest, dopiest grin, of the kind he'd never allow himself while awake.

(It was, perhaps, the most beautiful thing Aziraphale had ever seen, and he was suddenly desperately envious of whatever dream had facilitated it.)

"Oh, my _dearest..."_  Aziraphale breathed, and felt like he was choking.

He miracled his lungs away - didn't need the silly things in the first place - but the sensation persisted, strangling something at the very core of him every single second he looked at Crowley and wasn't allowed to touch. To have.

Oh, but he was good at it, at what he did, that foul Tempter, terribly good. Some days, he'd thought Eve had been a little silly, eating that apple when there'd been other trees abound in the Garden, but...

If it was Crowley Tempting, Aziraphale would eat all the apples in the world and Fall gladly into his arms.

And he didn't even like the damn fruits!*

 

*Eating all the sushi in the world would require a lot less Tempting.

 

 _I may be the most wicked angel in existence_ , Aziraphale thought to himself.

And then he said it out loud, because Crowley was fast asleep and wouldn't hear anyway, and it did feel ever so good to admit.

"I am the most wicked angel in existence," he declared.

"I'm greedy. I'm a glutton, slothful... all of the seven sins, really. Even lust."

He sighed.

"God knows I feel lust." He muttered guiltily, gazing down at the way Crowley's shirt was pulled tight over his slim shoulder.

"I wonder if you know. You're ever so good at this Tempting lark, my dear, surely you can't have been doing it on accident all these years? You _must_  know the way I look at you. The way I want, _want so BADLY..."_

Aziraphale reached out, and then stopped, hand shaking like Crowley's plants after a good talking-to, caught in that trembling moment just before contact.

He should pull back. Right now. Retreat to the foot end of the bed - better yet, the far wall of the room - bury his face in his book and forget all about Crowley still and peaceful on the bed.

Aziraphale had never been particularly good at resisting neither temptation nor Temptation.

His fingers twitched.

He miracled his lungs back just to take a deep, shuddering breath...

 

 

And took the hem of the blanket, carefully pulling it up over Crowley's shoulders.

 

 

"I love you, you gorgeous thing." He said solemnly, and, perhaps, a little sadly. "And would not risk what we have - what little it is of what I truly want - for the world."

He paused.

"Well. The absence of the world might make things somewhat problematic, so in the unlikely case of another Apocalypse, I rather hope you won't hold me to that."

He huffed a shaky laugh, and, because he was a soft, weak fool, ran a hand over Crowley's hair.*

 

*Damnable - literally - hedonist he was, he let it linger.

 

 

"I'm risking enough with furtive glances and foolish wishes as it is, so I must needs continue lying by omission. Just another sin to add to the pile."

Aziraphale thought for a moment.

"It's well understood in Heaven that demons are incapable of love. I've always wondered if, maybe, you just don't feel much like loving the beings that think of you as heartless abominations. And so I've wondered, could you love a demon, Crowley? A human?"

He hesitated.

Should he? Should he chance it?

 

"Would you love _me_  if I Fell?" He asked into the silence.

 

And then he screwed his eyes shut.

(This was one of those questions Aziraphale knew could well be the one to damn him. Granted, less likely than some of the others, but you never knew with the Almighty, did you?)

 

Nothing happened.*

 

*God was probably off appearing on a bagel somewhere. Jesus had quite taken to materialising on baked wares, and nothing said Father-Son(-and-Holy-Spirit) bonding time like engaging in the hobbies of your offspring.

 

Aziraphale didn't quite know whether to be relieved or disappointed, so he settled on quietly nauseous.

"Wouldn't." A voice mumbled.

Aziraphale snatched his hand from Crowley's hair. "What!?"

"What you said." Crowley blinked sleepily up at him.*

 

*Just like talking in his sleep, Crowley didn't usually wake up during the night.

_Usually._

 

"Wouldn't loathe you. Ever."

"Oh." Aziraphale pulled his face into a brittle grin. _"Loathe._  Yes. _That's_  what I said, that word I said. Jolly good."

"Silly angel." Crowley muttered into his pillow. "Couldn't loathe you if I tried. S'fact, cause I did."

"Loathed me?"

_"Tried."_

 

Aziraphale had to miracle his heart away at that, it was doing the strangest things in his chest.

 

"Legionssssstorming t'hotel?" Crowley slurred, already half-asleep again.

"No." Aziraphale whispered, shakily stumbling back a step, and then another. He'd been foolish, Crowley nearly, nearly... "No, everything's fine, Crowley, yes, fine, fine."

"Hmmmm..."

"Just go back to sleep, my deares- my dear." Too close. Too close, just because Aziraphale had felt the need for a bit of confession. He'd need to keep these matters safely under lock and key for the future.

Chancing a Fall was nothing, _nothing_  against potentially loosing his friendship with Crowley, smashing it to bits with his pointless love and thereby destroying the best thing that had happened to him all eternity.

Aziraphale nearly tripped and fell with how quickly he scrambled to snatch his book up and practically _threw_  himself into the far corner.

He didn't read a word for the rest of the night, and neither did he move a muscle.

Crowley slept on, peacefully oblivious to this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the hotel room next door - stocked out with four beds, two bunk beds, and a dog pillow - frustrated groans were heard, and most people went to sleep.

Madame Tracy alone stayed up, keeping watch just to make _entirely sure,_  and to finish the polka dot sweater she was in the middle of knitting.

She went through a row, and then another, needles click-clacking over the sound of sleep-slowed breaths.

"And what might you be doing, dearie?" She finally asked, not looking up from her knitting.

Newt flinched guiltily, dropping what he had been trying to sneak out from under Anathema's pillow.

File cards scattered everywhere, though he kept a grip on the Prophetic Tidbit at least.

"I. Um. I." He hurried to gather them up. "I was just... well."

He sighed.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Something mildly disconcerting sparked in Madame Tracy's eyes.

"Why, certainly!" She assured him.

Newt briefly thought about reconsidering, but in for a penny and all that. He went and sat down next to her.

"I've been... considering. Posing a. A question." He whispered haltingly. "To Anathema."

 _"Ooooooh!"_ Madame Tracy cooed excitedly.

"Ssssh! Ssssssh!" Newt quickly shushed her, glancing over at Anathema.

"But I don't think..." He sighed. "She's so _intelligent._  And beautiful. And rich, too!"

"Oh, sweetheart." Madame Tracy put away her knitting. This was a full-attention pep talk occasion, she could tell. "The girl _loves_  you!"

"Well, yes." Newt couldn't help but grin at the thought. "She does, yes, and said that there's a chance we might be married at some point. Agnes certainly seems to think so."

Madame Tracy blinked. "Then whatever is the problem?"

"Well, I don't know when. If I should pop the question now, or in a year, or..." He flipped through the pages of the Prophetic Tidbit with some frustration. "I was hoping, in an entire booklet about matchmaking, Agnes might've left some advice. Just one sidenote, a little scribble on the side, _'waite ye 'til springetyme, Pulsifer'_ , is that too much to ask?"

Madame Tracy took the booklet from his hands.

Flipped through to the last page.

"I think," she said gently, "you just looked for the wrong advice."

She held it out to him.

There, written onto the inside of the back cover, stood:

 

_Fret nott, for I assure ye;_

_Alle shall be Well_

_Inne the ENDE._

 

Newt blinked.

"Well." He said. "That's absolutely useless, isn't it?"

"Hm. Yes." Madame Tracy had to admit, he had a point there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intermission chapter next, and after that, the finale arc!!! (This is getting much longer than I thought it would...)
> 
> Nutterian translation:
> 
> Get them kicked out of their homes  
> By putting rats and WWII bombs in strategic locations  
> So that they'll have to get a room together  
> And would you look at that:  
> There's just one bed!!!
> 
> And Aziraphale will be so in love  
> That he'll FINALLY tell Crowley  
> During that night.
> 
> I'm actually a little behind on responding to comments by now... AND I LOVE IT! <3 <3 <3


	12. Intermission: Final Breakthrough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly managed to finish this yesterday, except I spent a good chunk of the evening drawing Aziraphale and Crowley in a wedding dress.  
> (Yes, ONE wedding dress... do check it out on my brand-new [Tumblr](https://wyvernquill.tumblr.com/post/185821697146/ok-is-it-just-me-or-is-never-gonna-give-you) if you're interested, I promise it's worth it!)
> 
> Do enjoy!

Three hundred years ago - or some such, 300 is a much neater number though, don't you agree? - a witch sat in her cottage, and was drinking something that other villagers assumed was a foul potion, but was really much closer to an early version of a green smoothie.*

 

*Some might argue that this was even fouler, but the witch knew what was good for you, she did, so go drink your veggies or no dessert.

 

The witch's name was Agnes Nutter - you might've heard of her - and she was, at this point, extremely pleased with herself and the universe at large.

Agnes - a man from the International Express company has just rung, and left a very old letter assuring us that yes, we may indeed call her Agnes - was at the top of the world* at that moment.

 

*The known world at the time, of course, which wasn't actually all that impressive and contained rather more lice than was good for you.

 

She had gotten her book all written and published, which, Agnes knew from her visions of the future*, was something many young writers would only ever dream of.

 

*Have we mentioned Agnes could see the future? We rather hope we did, it's one of the two most interesting things about her, next to a wart on her left shoulder that was a very interesting colour indeed.

 

Of course, nobody would buy them, but Agnes had her author's copy and was content. It was all she'd wanted out of this book-writing malarkey, after all.

Furthermore, she'd already taken quite a few notes on her second book - though Agnes had an inkling it might end up as kindling, hehee, wasn't she a witty witch - and still had a comfortable few years until she was set to explode.

Even the villagers were only throwing stones at her every second Thursday, and only rather small ones.

Life was good to Agnes Nutter, or at least as good as life got if you were a witch in the 17th century, which obviously wasn't all that much.

Agnes sipped her foul potion, and patted herself on the back* for doing sterling work in preventing the Apocalypse.

 

*And we don't mean this metaphorically, she really, physically, patted herself on the back.

Look, the woman made 'Nutter' a household term for a reason, okay?

 

Now, all that was left for her to do was lean back and see how the future was getting on.

Agnes didn't really _see_ the future as much as... remember it. Only the other way around, backwards remembering of images and impressions and sometimes fun little scenes with a punchline that all hadn't happened yet and would likely never happen to her personally.

She rebmemer-ed! Oh, that was a fun word, Agnes liked fun new words, especially the ones from the future.*

 

*She still wasn't quite sure what 'yeet' meant, but neither did most adults in the future, so that was fine.

(She used it the way one used 'alas', if the Esteemed Reader is wondering, and it cemented the villagers' belief that she spoke in tongues.)

 

Agnes was going to _enjoy_ this, she really was. Years and years of careful manipulating, always needing to look out for dangers, gauge risks, check with the outcome of Armageddon again and again...

It had simply been exhausting. Now, with nothing quite as big on the line, all she had to do was compose a note or two, _'voteth ye nott for Breksit, I begge ye, doest it nott!',_ and hope for the best.

So Agnes closed her eyes, and rebmemer-ed.

Pictures flashed before her eyes, of the funny carriages the future had, one of the truly ghastly wars that Agnes didn't like to look at too much - it scared her, what humanity was going to be capable of, sometimes - and finally settled on her beloved descendant, Anathema.

A memory - yromem, technically - full of warmth and love and happiness spread out before her, and Agnes smiled.

(It might not always seem that way, but Agnes truly did love her family, every single one, even Anathema's great-uncle Peter, who wasn't exactly making it easy. She only ever wanted the best for them.)

In this yromem, Anathema was very near Agnes's age, with glasses perched on her nose and in very sharp garments. (Quite dashing, yes!) She was walking down the path to Jasmine Cottage, where a man with a child on his arm was waiting for her at the gate.

The Pulsifer lad! Oh, Agnes was proud of her choice there. Bumbling, yes, a hint useless, but dear Anathema was capable enough for two, and there was - would be, technically - true and honest love between them.*

 

*One might think Agnes had only engineered events to have him present at the End of Things for his non-skills with computers, but one would be mistaken. There had been near fifty individuals in the greater London area with this particular ability, and quite a few would've been much easier to send into Anathema's path.

Agnes had chosen Newton Pulsifer with care, never doubt that.

 

No need to worry about them, no.

Agnes cast her mind further, glancing over darling Adam and his young companions attending college - with varying success, but always love between them - a small bungalow called Shangri-la, and a Concrete Convent.

Splendid, splendid! Agnes would've cackled delightedly, but for a witch, she was actually quite rubbish at cackling. Happy endings all around! Everything really was coming up Agnes, wasn't it?

And here were the Principality - foolish thing, though dear enough - and his demon. Now, there was a _happily_ ever after if she'd ever... ever...

Agnes frowned.

Thought a little further. Sifted through more yromem-s.

Her frown deepened.

Surely, sometime, at some point, eventually...

Or not.

 

Agnes spent the next few days methodically going through every single impression she had of the two of them, and only grew more and more frustrated.

Oh no, she thought. No no no, that would not do. Would NOT do at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Matchmaker Army meanwhile - no, not meanwhile at all, futurewhile perhaps - had reached its lowest point.

Humans - and as-good-as - tended to get discouraged after repeated failure, and they were no exception.

Anathema and the Them were hit particularly hard, threatening to loose their faith in Agnes and Adam respectively, which they had previously believed to be the wisest person in existence.*

 

*This included Adam himself, who, like all little boys, had rather thought himself infallible to some degree, and was now quite startled to find he was not.

(Nevermind that he'd experienced something similar during the Oooh-Almost-Apocalypse, he was actually _really trying_ now...)

 

(Newt, for his part, was going through a crisis as well, but the Esteemed Reader may know that this had nothing whatsoever to do with the success - or lack thereof - regarding Aziraphale and Crowley's love life.)

Those among them who fared better obviously made it their mission to restore their good cheer.

There was a page of the Prophetic Tidbit solely dedicated to lame jokes that somehow catered precisely to the Nutter-Device humour - Anathema had burst out into startled laughter at the punchline of _"yea, I aske thee, why doth the chycken crosseth the patheway?"_ \- and Madame Tracy made downright delicious cookies.*

 

*And, as per solemn agreement, she would never tell a soul that it was Shadwell who had suggested comforting "t'wee bairns" in this manner. He had a reputation of grouchiness to uphold.

 

And, finally, the nuns held a Black Mass in their Lord's honour, blood sacrifice and all.

 

Well.

A blood sacrifice had been _planned._

However, it turned out that Adam, when offered to have Tim sacrificed to further his glory, was not really in favour of that idea.

He didn't see why someone had to die just to please him, seemed rather wrong, that.*

 

*Adam, Agnes tells us in her very old letter, will become a vegetarian shortly after he first comes across that term during dinner with Pepper's mother, three years hence. Here, we likely witnessed the first stirrings of this fledgling sentiment.

 

The nuns had all chattered sadly at that, until Adam had proposed to sacrifice one of Sister Ethel's Hot Upside-Down-Cross buns* instead.

 

*God had appeared on one by mistake once. The nuns hadn't noticed, and Sister Theresa Tattletale merely remarked that the one on the left had turned out a bit odd, before snatching it up and eating it with relish.

 

Ethel was a fantastic baker - mostly because she was the only one who didn't tend to get distracted and forget about the baked wares in the oven - so that was quickly agreed upon, not least because sacrificing a full goat might've left ghastly stains on the Concrete Convent's carpet.

(To be honest, the nuns were quite relieved. They'd never sacrificed anything with a pulse in all their life, and had really only offered out of courtesy.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

And so the Matchmaker Army came to bear witness to a lovely Black Mass, which either gained or lost something - depends on how lapsed a Satanist you are, probably - by being centered around a Hot Upside-Down-Cross bun* and was periodically interrupted by the ominously chanting Servants of Darkness to pleadingly ask a little boy whether he was properly pleased by their display of reverence yet, O Lord?

 

*The fact that it might as well have been a normal Hot Cross bun viewed from a different angle would one day send the Order into a terrible religious dispute only settled by Sister Ethel hastily making some devil's food cake for everyone to share.

 

Adam always smiled bravely and assured them that yes, it did please him very much, great fun, could he have another bun please?, but he never quite lost that cloud of glumness hovering just above his head.

(Quite literally. There was a similar, but smaller cloud hovering above Dog, too.)

It was no good. They were thoroughly disheartened, and so, _so_ close to giving up.

 

 

 

"What if..." Newt whispered, guiltily glancing at the nuns.*

 

*He needn't have worried, talking during mass was encouraged in the Chattering Order. Satanists were cool like that.

 

"What if we tried..."

"Tried what?" Anathema hissed back. "We tried just about every sensible idea in the entire damn Prophetic Tidbit, Newt!"

And that they had.

The Valentine's Day card had been discarded as some strange advertisement, the Heavenly Host had yet to get back to them on the offer of a very old goat and maybe a Hellhound for Aziraphale's hand in marriage, and the less said about the spin-the-bottle debacle, the better.

(They'd even tried mixing the 'love potion' Agnes mentioned on page nine, but not even Madame Tracy had had _quite_ that many little blue pills at her disposal, and the concept had seemed a little icky to them anyway.)

"I was going to say, think outside the box." Newt muttered defensively. "Outside the prophecies. Nothing against Agnes, but her matchmaking schemes have had an _abyssmal_ success rate so far."

(At that precise moment, Ethel got up on tiptoes and whispered something into Mary's ear that made her flush quite forcefully and nearly drop the ceremonial bread knife, and Madame Tracy leaned her head on Shadwell's shoulder.

The irony of this - and the fact that he was sitting next to his future wife who was so far out of his league they shouldn't even occupy the same hemisphere - was lost on Newt.)

The Matchmaker Army considered that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

(Agnes signed the front cover of the Prophetic Tidbit with a flourish. She hadn't exactly been precise and accurate with this one, but the time for precision had come and gone, Agnes felt.

No, brute force was needed first to weaken their resolves, put them on the brink of breaking - and matchmake a little in the process, Agnes was quite good at multitasking - and then, then...

Agnes was still not very good at cackling, but she gave it a valiant try.

THEN love - and Agnes - would triumph.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Well, how about... how did _you_ get married?" Brian asked, scrunching his nose up. "Maybe that works on them, too."

(The other Them were quite impressed, since it was a very valid question. Adam was quite upset he hadn't come up with it first.)

"Oh!" Madame Tracy giggled. "Me and Mr. S, we're not married yet, dearie!"

"Yet!?" Shadwell's head jerked up. "Wha' do ye mean, _yet!?"_

"But as for what started our living in sin..."

"Aye, sin is right, 'tis!"

"Well, the Apocalypse had just nearly happened, and I thought to myself, Tracy, I thought: you adore that silly man, you know you do. And with the End of the World and all, maybe you should tell him so. Does wonders, being confronted with your own mortality, it does!"

Adam nodded sagely, even though he didn't _really_  understand.

"But that's no good." Pepper piped up. "THEY were at the end of things too, and didn't say anything."

"How 'bout you then?" Brian turned to Anathema and Newt.

"Not married either." Anathema shrugged, and Newt winced. "But in my case it was because Agnes prophecied it, at least at the start. Then I realised he was quite sweet, too. And it was the last day before Armageddon, I didn't really think I'd get other chances."

"Agnes prophececied Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley, too." Wensleydale pointed out. "An' it's not doing much."

"From my side..." Newt began haltingly. "It was... there I was, with this beautiful, _beautiful_  girl, and it was storming like the world was ending - which it was, I suppose - and I thought, I'm going to die. I knew it. Your priorities change when you know you're going to die, and so I... risked it."

He took Anathema's hand. "And I'm terribly glad I did. If I really had died, I would've done so while being the happiest I've ever been."

Anathema blinked, and opened her mouth to say something...

"But _they_ can't die!" Pepper groaned. "This is stupid. We're never going to get them together that way!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

(Agnes took a deep breath, quill poised above the book. This was it. She was about to write the only essential prophecy in the entire booklet, the only one that wasn't expendable and just slightly useless.

The prophecy that would lead her Matchmaker Army - good one, Adam - to success, and Aziraphale and Crowley into each other's arms and pants.

And so Agnes wrote.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What if it's obvious?" Anathema asked suddenly. "And the one plan to work is the very last prophecy in the book?"

"I don't think so!" Newt burst out, pleading with his eyes for Madame Tracy to support him in this. "Maybe the last prophecy has nothing to do with Aziraphale and Crowley at all and is supposed to advise someone else in some other matter? Or, or, it's just a general reassurance! Totally useless!"

"Don't be silly, Newt." Anathema flipped over page after page. "Agnes doesn't write empty reassurances, it's not the kind of person she is. Every prophecy has a point. Not always a great one, but... whatever it is, it might well point us towards the solution."

 

 

* * *

 

 

(Agnes ran her finger over the words, before closing the booklet.

The One Essential Prophecy, the Only Not-Useless One was written, onto the back cover like an afterthought...

...yet anything but.

"Taketh it to hearte, childeren." Agnes said softly. "Thif moft useth-fulle of Propheceys.")

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Alle shall be Well / Inne the ENDE." Anathema read aloud.

"Well. It does seem a _bit_  useless." She admitted.

 

 

A thoughtful silence hung in the air.

 

 

They would never quite know who had the idea. Only that it wasn't there one moment, and in their heads the next.

Had this been one of the Them's comics, you would've seen lightbulbs pop up above their heads.*

 

*Unless it was one of Wensleydale's, in which lightbulbs only featured in informative electrical diagrams.

 

"Oh. Oh! OH!" Anathema gasped.

"We... we can't do that." Newt stuttered. "Can we?"

"Ach, course we ken!" Shadwell banged a fist on the table. "We dinna have any ovver option, du we?"

"Adam, dearie?" Madame Tracy threw him a questioning glance.

"I could do it..." He said slowly. "But I'd need everybody's help, 'specially Pepper and Brian and Wensley, and the nuns."

"US!?" The chanting behind them immediately broke off into excited chatter and countless assurances how _of course_  they'd _love_  to help, O Lord of Darkness and Depravity!

"Anything, Adam." Pepper said solemnly, Brian and Wensleydale nodding beside her.

Dog barked, and they all stuck their heads together to plan.

 

 

 

"Isn't it a bit... overboard?" Newt fidgeted. "We don't even know if it-"

"Newt. Love." Anathema took his face in her hands and made him look at her.*

 

*Newt was proud of himself for only being very briefly distracted by her beauty.

 

"Crowley promised Aziraphale forever and Aziraphale said he'd Fall if it'd make Crowley love him. And both of those _went nowhere!_  'Overboard' is what we NEED right now, trust me."

"Fair." Newt croaked, line of sight sliding steadily downwards. "...and may I kiss you?"

Anathema fondly rolled her eyes. "Yes. Later. When we won't have to stop."

Well. Newt was quite happy with that, actually, he was.

 

 

 

"Alrite then." Shadwell, always one to flourish when offered a clear goal, took this opportunity to get up onto his chair and deliver a rousing speech.*

 

*He'd always dreamed of giving one, during his time as a Witchfinder, and never really had the opportunity, due to the overwhelming lack of other Witchfinders.

 

"'Tis it, warriers o' righteousness!" He declared. "T'Witchfin-"

"Matchmaker." Anathema immediately corrected.

"S'wha' I said, inna it? T'Matchmaker Army's greetest hoor! Get ye yer candles and yer bells, 'tis the day we _boorn_  t'witch!"

"Make Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley kiss." Madame Tracy corrected kindly.

"Aye." Shadwell blinked. "Wha' din I say?"

"Never you mind, dearie." She patted his arm. "Never you mind."

 

 

* * *

 

 

(It so happens that there was a very old drawing attached to the very old letter mentioned above; the back of it reads as follows.)

 

 

_Thif be a Sketche of Miftress Nutter, proclaimeth (bey hereself) to be the Laft True Wytch Inne Engelande._

_(It hath taken the paynter maney a longe hour to gette her to stey inne one spott, ande to ceafe what she calleth 'Face off the Ducke' - which looketh moft peculyar to hif eye - or to saye 'Cheefe' whylst he capturéd her.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Matchmaker Army marches on!  
> Any guesses as for the ultimate matchmaking scheme? Not that I'll confirm or deny anything... ;)
> 
> Nutterian translation:  
> "And you better figure this one out, kids, it's the only one that counts!"
> 
> This is a drawing of Agnes Nutter, who actually thinks she's a witch, would you believe it!?  
> (And you wouldn't _believe_ how long this took, because that madwoman wouldn't sit still, and kept making duckface - which looked pretty damn weird - and saying "Cheese!" for no reason. Crazy, right?)


	13. This Is Our Last Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For no reason at all, I feel compelled to remind readers that this is based on a book by _two_ authors, and therefore a story may focus mostly on Pratchettesque humour for, say, 12 chapters, and then perhaps acquire a hint of more Gaiman-ish horror in the hypothetical 13th chapter.  
> Just throwing that out there randomly for those people who might have issues with _slightly_ darker imagery.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

"Angel?" Crowley asked carefully. "You're not going to... say anything?"

"Hm?' Aziraphale startled slightly. "Say about what, dear boy?"

Crowley merely gestured at the table in front of him, where he'd been paying for their sushi platter using heaps of individual pennies.

Usually, Aziraphale would've thwarted him after the first handful, handing over a bill and muttering "honestly, my dear" in that immeasurably fond tone of his that made Crowley's heart swell until it was nearly cutting off his windpipe; but now he'd heaped roughly the price of their meal onto the table, and had even gotten so far as to demand exact change from the poor waitress* without Aziraphale saying a word.

 

*Akiko was seriously reconsidering her decision to enter into the family business of peddling mildly dubious 'fish' to Brits who wouldn't know hosomaki from sashimi if their life depended on it, and then paid for it in the loosest of loose change just to get their boyfriend's attention.

She idly wondered if it was already too late to run off and become a minor official in a government position of no real consequence, and then retire to the country to grow prize-winning cabbages and go to neighbourhood watch meetings.

(This career path, for the Interested Reader, is otherwise known as the 'Anglican Dream'.)

 

"Oh!" Aziraphale's eyes widened, before narrowing disapprovingly.

Ah yes, _there_  was Crowley's judgemental goody-two-shoes angel.

"Petty old serpent." Aziraphale grumbled, pulling a few pound notes from a coat pocket that had more likely than not been empty moments before.

"Here you go, dear girl." He shot the waitress a kind smile. "Do keep the change."

"Not _this_  change, though!" Crowley added cheerfully, shoveling the pennies back into his pockets for the next time he passed a toll booth.*

 

*Heaven, believe it or not, was responsible for these, and Crowley took great pride in having driven five booth operators into crying fits within the last fiscal year. (Which was technically a Hellish year, but taxes and bookkeeping were very firmly theirs, so that count had transferred.)

 

Akiko snatched up the bills, muttered something very annoyed about gay Englishmen having their weird foreplay in the middle of her restaurant, and went off to borrow grandfather's book on cabbage-rearing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Bentley played _One Year of Love_ on the way back, meaning Crowley grimaced as if in physical pain all throughout the ride, while Aziraphale seemed to take no notice, staring out the window with the same deliberately absent air he'd had in the restaurant.

Crowley should be glad about that. Less opportunity to let something potentially damning slip.

Crowley wasn't glad.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley hesitated at the door of the bookshop. "You know, if you don't _want_  my company, I can just... I'd understand, angels and demons, not made for spending quite this much time together, if it's getting tedious with me you need only say-"

"No!" Aziraphale burst out, and at least he was fully concentrating on Crowley again, that was nice. "Oh, my dear boy, I didn't mean to make you think... never tedious, of course never! I was merely... preoccupied. Yes. With nothing of importance, really, quite inconsequential, so sorry you felt neglected!"

(Crowley hissed unhappily at the way that made him sound like a petulant child, but, the thing was, he wasn't _wrong,_  per se.)

"Won't you come in?" Aziraphale asked a little pleadingly.

Saying no had never been an option.

 

(That was your chance, fool. Aziraphale's brain chastised him. You might've agreed and kept your distance for a decade, until you can be around him again without forcefully having to concentrate on other things lest you find yourself Tempted. He even _offered!_

Aziraphale pointedly ignored it, and resolved to be a most exemplary host for the rest of the evening, and be duly attentive to make up for his previous rudeness.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Another?" Aziraphale plucked the empty wine glass* from Crowley's fingers.

 

*It was only the first of the night. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Aziraphale and Crowley usually drank quite responsibly, if no Antichrist matters were involved.

 

"Oh, why not." Crowley stretched, trying to get comfortable in a chair that was made for someone much shorter and rotund than him. (He hadn't dared share the sofa. That was just asking for trouble.)

"And pour a bit more generously!" He called after him. He was sure being stingy with the alcohol was counted as a sin in _some_  scripture or other, he was merely looking out for Aziraphale's... whatever angels had in lieu of an immortal soul, anyway.

Aziraphale only responded with some quite unkind mutterings, which made Crowley break out into a delighted grin.*

 

*What most people felt after receiving a heartfelt compliment, Crowley felt after one of Aziraphale's good-natured insults; and we leave the Esteemed Reader to speculate whether that might also be the case with Crowley in a decidedly more unclothed state.

 

Giving the chair up as a lost cause, Crowley got up to stretch his legs a little, sauntering over to the plants in the corner.

Next to Alberta sat, if Crowley recalled correctly, Victoire, Will and Oscar, all shivering in terror the closer he got.

Leaning very close, he re-instilled the fear of Crowley in them, whispering some especially choice threats into Oscar's leaves.*

 

*This had nothing to do with its namesake and jealousy, of course, it simply was performing the worst - nevermind if Will had a brown spot and Alberta still hadn't recovered from the overwatering.

 

Once that was taken care of, he turned to the gramophone.

He flipped through the old vinyl records, said "bleh!" quietly enough for Aziraphale not to hear, and finally settled on the closest thing to 'beebop' he could find in the collection.*

 

*Which was only close in the sense of two people living on different continents in different hemispheres, who _maybe_  have once, in passing, while spectacularly drunk, have briefly considered visiting the other country, and then promptly discarded that thought forever.

 

He put it on. It was ghastly, of course, but what could you do.

"Why, Crowley!" Aziraphale returned with two generously filled glasses in hand, a spot of alcoholic flush suggesting he'd nipped a little from the bottle while he'd been at it. "You've picked my favourite song!"

"Really!?" Crowley grimaced in disgust. _"This_  one?"

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale sniffed. "I learned the gavotte to it. Marvellous dance, ever so sad it's gone out of fashion."

(Crowley, for his part, felt like the gavotte couldn't have been ground to dust beneath the ever-turning wheels of time early enough, but felt it prudent not to voice this sentiment.)

"I haven't had a dance partner in _decades..."_ Aziraphale sighed, wistful melancholy pouring off him in waves. "Oh, I do miss it terribly sometimes."

Crowley considered that.

The gavotte wasn't a particularly intimate dance, was it? Neither physically close nor overtly lewd, the kind of thing two friends could feasibly dance without one of them suddenly feeling it necessary to reveal their undying love for the other mid-dance.

Right? Right.  _Right._

"You could teach me!" He suggested, before he could think better of it.

"Teach _you?"_ Aziraphale raised one eyebrow, radiating doubt that was entirely unjustified, from Crowley's point of view.*

 

*Among demons, he was actually considered an exceptional dancer, but, as is well known, this is a very low bar and no objective seal of quality in any way.

Crowley merely danced like he had two left feet, rather than one left feet, one hoof, and something that might've once been a tentacle but had clearly been hit by a grenade and developed a bad case of gout.

 

"Teach _me."_ He confirmed.

Something flashed across Aziraphale's face that someone not Cowley - read: an oblivious, boneheaded idiot - might've recognised as desire for closeness and fear of the consequences warring deep inside him, Temptation flaring up and being beat down again, longing burning all the hotter for it.

All Crowley managed to take from that brief spasm was that Aziraphale's fondness for gavotte clearly ran deeper than he'd thought, and that he was obviously conflicted over having to dance it with a demon or not at all.

"Well?" He held out his hand.

(It was a little like back on the cracking tarmac of the air base, and yet nothing like it.)

Aziraphale looked at him, and the weight of millennia of shared history rested on that gaze.

Something within Crowley - clearly more insightful than Crowley himself - both flinched and rejoiced at the sight of it.

"Oh, fine." Aziraphale said, almost flippantly, setting the wine down and grasping Crowley's hand. "Best foot forward then- no, your _other_  best, dear boy!"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time the gramophone first scratched to a halt and Aziraphale went to reset the needle, Crowley had stepped on Aziraphale's toes six times, and once, somehow, on his own; and, what was worse, apparently the blessed angel had no qualms about adjusting Crowley's posture with a firm hand anywhere from his shoulders to his hips or even the small of his back.

Deciding he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this kind of thing, Crowley took his wine, turned it into scotch, and promptly drained the glass.

Better.

Crowley willed the glass full again, and repeated the action.

 _Much_  better.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It turned out that Aziraphale was both horribly out of practice as well as a pitiful teacher, but at that point they were both far too sloshed to care, stumbling and laughing and butchering the gavotte in a manner that would have Aziraphale's old instructor at the discreet gentleman's club crying bitter tears.*

 

*The tactile character of Aziraphale's teaching methods was very much owed to said man, whose _interest_  the angel - bless his oblivious heart - had failed entirely to pick up on. He'd simply believed that that was how one taught dancing.

(Though the sweet murmurs to get one in a dancing mood had always seemed a bit _much_  to him.)

 

"You're fa- hic! _fantastic,_  my dear!" Aziraphale finally laughed breathily, and Crowley could barely believe how abstaining from _this_  had ever been seriously considered.

Slightly wobbly, he stepped back into position, offering Aziraphale another dance. Or two, if he was up for it.

As many as he liked, really.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Crowley finally stumbled out of the bookstore far past midnight, still humming that celestial, thrice-annointed tune and Aziraphale giggling drunkenly and waving after him, he was in higher spirits than he'd been in a long time.

The alcohol numbed the painful sting of yearning, and, really, Crowley should simply stop being a greedy demon who wanted more than his due, and be content with what he had.

Because he did have Aziraphale, in those small, deceptively intimate ways of having catalogued every breath and smile, of knowing him down to his very core since the - literal - dawn of time, of being able to tell when he wanted cocoa before Aziraphale even knew himself.

All that had to count for _something,_  Crowley decided, and let that thought slosh back and forth through his head, until it had drowned all the silly little bits screaming _MORE MORE MORE_ without pause.

With all the firm conviction of the thoroughly pissed, Crowley vowed to forget about it all. The love, the yearning, the hoping.

Snap, gone.

Leaving only friendship and platonic affection and pure undiluted joy at Aziraphale's happiness.

Yes. He could do that.

 

"M'turning m-muh-my life 'round!" Crowley proudly told the Bentley, sliding into the driver's seat.*

 

*A Very Important Notice: only ever drink and drive if you happen to be a demon and in possession of a sentient - and very responsible - car. Otherwise, we advise you not to raise your blood alcohol above the level you'd want your heart surgeon to have, which, we hope, is a suitably low number.

 

"No moar pinin'!" He announced grandly. "Fine wif... wif wha' I have. Yeaaaah! Lovessssstupid, 'nyway."

Crowley grinned proudly. There, whyever was sober Crowley struggling so terribly with this? All quite easy to settle.

The blaupunkt clicked.

And for the first time in many, many years, the Bentley played a song not released by the entirety of Queen as a band.

 _"Love kills,"_ Freddie Mercury sang, on his first solo recording. " _Stays for a lifetime, won't let you go, cause love won't leave you-"_

"Alone." Crowley whispered, and, for all his impressively drunken state, suddenly felt very sobered indeed.

All the metaphorical drawers and closets he'd shoddily nailed shut broke open again, and any firm resolution he might've made went out the window, up in smoke, gone.

Poof.

 

"What the HEAVEN are you playing at!?" Crowley snarled, throwing the car door open and staggering out. "Don't think I ha- haven't noticed! Think s'funny, eh? Mockin' me!"

He pointed a shaking finger at the Bentley's windshield.

"Traitor." He said coldly. "Thought you, YOU, of all thin's, wud always be on m'side!"

 _"I'll look back at myself and say,"_ the Bentley defended itself in Freddie's words, _"I did it for love!"_

"Love!?" Crowley spat. "S'not making me happy, though, love is! Bloody... bloody miserable, is what I am. Better if I do- don't think 'bout love."

He swallowed.

"Why must you _torture_  me?" Crowley asked hoarsely, a world of pain in his voice, and the Bentley's oil pump nearly broke in half right there in its bonnet.

It switched tracks - quite literally, communicating through cassette and all that.

 _"I'm compromised, I must apologise,"_ it hesitantly offered.

"Oh no, no, you've made your garage and now y'have to park in it!" Crowley hissed, trying to cross his arms but not quite having the coordination for it. "M'DONE wif you!"

The Bentley was shocked into silence.

"Yeah, tha' shuts you up." Crowley glared, and proceeded to stomp off.

"M'going an' takin' _public transport."_ He called over his shoulder. "See how y'like THA'!"

The Bentley did not like it. Did not like it whatsoever! Oh, dash it all, it had never meant to... never...

 _"Let me in your heart again,"_ the Bentley pleaded desperately. " _Oh my love, I want you to stay!"_

Crowley ignored it, a very startled handful of air suddenly finding itself turned into a flask filled with an alcoholic beverage, and then promptly emptied.

Drinking had banished this heartache before, it would again, Crowley reasoned.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was a certain, very unique atmosphere, to the underground at night.

It was as if, at midnight, the tube looked down itself and decided it'd had it with appearing normal in even the vaguest of senses, inviting all manners of strangeness into itself.

The extraordinary lost all meaning, and even the most ridiculous happenings categorised as 'perfectly normal, is this seat still unoccupied?' Really, it was quite magical if one liked this sort of thing.

Crowley had never experienced this particular _je ne sais quoi_ of nighttime public transport himself - in fact, he was very much unfamiliar with the regular variety - and, to his surprise, found he did like it. Very much indeed.*

 

*This might, in part, also be owed to his current state of inebriation and the stubborn conviction to somehow 'show' the Bentley that one could traverse London very well without it, thank you very much!

 

There was just something... inherently _human_  about it.

Crowley could've sat there for hours, slumped in his seat, and watched these bloody _marvellous_  creatures be strange and peculiar and so delightfully random.*

 

*He had, in fact, been watching for over an hour already. It seemed like Crowley hadn't picked up on the fact that one had to leave the underground at one's stop yet.

 

He'd already spotted one young woman with a unicycle and goth makeup, an old man with no teeth and racing stripes on his rollator, a girl two meters into knitting a full Tom Baker scarf, and far too many people who didn't believe in wearing shoes - though one of them had at least gone for socks.

Crowley had even managed to find some recurring types that always had one or two examples occupying any given carriage:

The party animals, appearing in groups of at least five and drugged up on a veritable cocktail of pure, undiluted vice that made Crowley's head swim even more - though that might also be related to the strange cigarette one of them was smoking.

The too-fine men and women carefully trying to conceal their jewelry and flinching at every passerby, pretending ever so hard that they couldn't sell the clothes on their backs alone and live quite a few years in splendor from it.

The obligatory young couple at the end of the carriage, already well past indecent and perfectly uncaring about who saw.

And, of course, the group Crowley counted himself a part of: businessmen in suits that looked like they didn't quite fit even if they did, rumpled from a long day and a few pints too many and miserably staring holes in the air.

Crowley was rather certain he had them all beat in that last regard, morosely watching the slightly sepia-tinged light of the old overhead lamps bathe his fellow passengers and trying to enjoy the absurdity of it all without thinking about how much he'd like to take Aziraphale people-watching here someday.

He would love it, Crowley was sure. In one measly carriage, there was more human ingenuity and creativity, more randomness, than Heaven and Hell would manage if you gave them another 6000 years and a few helpful pointers to boot.

A young man with a pink dog left at the next stop, 'mind the gap, mind the gap' echoing, and Crowley thought, perhaps, he was very nearly close to truly, _truly_  understanding why God had liked these slightly-improved apes best of all His creation.

But just before he _quite_  got it, the evening full of dancing took its toll, and he fell asleep right there and then.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There has been quite a bit of debate about whether or not demons, with their lack of hopes and imaginations, can dream.

It should come as no surprise that, as a rule, they failed to, even if they got around to trying in the first place; but that Crowley could pride himself on being the only demon who made an exception from time to time.

He found himself making one that night, though it was a most peculiar dream, and he quickly forgot all the best bits.

 

(For those interested:

He could vaguely recall Aziraphale standing over him as he slept, announcing he'd had enough of waiting - for what, Crowley wondered - and so he'd come to an arrangement with someone suffering from a similar problem.

Next thing he knew, he was sitting on Aziraphale's sofa and getting drunk, the Pulsifer boy with him - though Crowley could _swear_  he kept morphing into animals in the corner of his eye - except, when he looked around, it turned out that the sofa stood in the middle of Tadfield Manor's chapel, and the nuns were holding some kind of wedding ceremony.

The couple at the altar turned, and Crowley felt like he was doused in ice-cold water. Maybe literally, it was a dream after all.

Anathema, decked out in a sharp suit, was arm in arm with Aziraphale in the loveliest wedding dress Crowley had ever seen, laughing and happy and quite clearly just married.

 _No,_ Crowley faintly remembered groaning, and Newt next to him agreeing miserably.

And then, quite suddenly, Adam was there, taking up more of his vision than he feasibly should, cocking his head to one side and saying, innocently and old and terrible, _would you like me to start it all over again?_

 

_I could, you know._

 

Crowley didn't remember what he'd responded, only that he was sitting in the Bentley next thing he knew, enveloped in flames, and Aziraphale's burned and blackened corporation empty beside him.

 _Oh my dear boy_ , it rasped, in a dead voice entirely devoid of anything distinctly Aziraphale. _You should've told me._

Its jaw had crumbled to ash, and still it was speaking.

_Now it's too late._

In his dream, Crowley screamed.)

 

There has also been a fair bit of debate over the importance one must place on the meaning of dreams, demonic or not.

We personally find that they are perfectly immaterial, with absolutely no connection to events either past or future, and should therefore be cheerfully ignored.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Crowley blinked back to awareness the next morning - clearly, he had exuded enough of an aura of wickedness for people to shy from waking him - he _didn't_ feel like death warmed over.

No, the sensation was much more akin to 'death warmed over shoddily in a broken microwave in five-second low-energy bursts with forgetting it for an hour or two in between until it's just an ugly, congealing glob sticking to the plate', which, one can quite graphically imagine, was infinitely worse.

Crowley thanked Someone for the fact that he was already wearing sunglasses when he climbed out of... some station, he hadn't really payed attention, and still made sure to not even glance up at the cloudy London sky lest it sent stabs of agony through his brain.

Crowley stumbled into a nearby café, groaning a little at the sharp jingle of the doorbell.

Bullying his way past a pram parked quite inconveniently between tables and some student's backpack, Crowley growled something in the direction of the counter that loosely translated to "caffeine, in whichever form it comes" and slumped into a nearby chair.

Hangovers, he reflected, were more than simply unfortunate chemical reactions in the brain. They were a state of being, a personal belief, an entire mindset in itself, and _that_  Crowley couldn't escape, sobering up or not.*

 

*Not even Hell - Heaven never had much cause for research - had ever figured out how to effectively cure hangovers.

 

He had converted to hangoverism; he _was_  the hangover now.

Wallowing in abject misery some more, he buried his head in his hands.

Somewhere on the counter, a portable radio stood, idly playing some music Azir- no, no, he wasn't thinking about the angel now, music that _some people_  might derisively call 'beebop'.*

 

*To this day, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale were entirely sure whose work radio broadcasts had been. TV was Hell's work, they were in agreement about that, but _radio..._

 

The song had only just begun to grow on Crowley, in that hate-it-meh-it's-okay-love-it way songs on the radio tended to inspire, when it switched over to some ghastly American televangelist show.

"Fellas, it's that time again!" Marvin O. Bagman boomed. "Time to pledge your donation, and lend your strength to Jesus Christ!"*

 

*After his on-air breakdown, Marvin had spent a few weeks praying the crazy away, and then made his triumphant return with his new album "Get Thee Behind Me, Satan", featuring such evergreens as "Rootin' Tootin' Devil Shootin'", "God Is A Veteran" and "Jesus Loves Ya (Unless You're Queer, Or Black, Or Muslim, Or Believe In Evolution, Or Anything Else That Doesn't Match My World View)", which was curiously quite popular with people who believed it was satire.

It was not.

 

"Now, are you ready, brothers and sisters? I say, ARE YA READY? Because let me tell ya, The Rapture is upon us! It is upon us, so pray with me, pray that He judges us rightly as the believers we are, pray!"

Crowley would've rolled his eyes if they didn't feel like they might fall from his skull the moment he tried.

"Join your hearts with me, join your hearts with JESUS, and let us sing together as they lift us up!"

He glared into his palms. If this was going to be "When I'm Swept Up By The Rapture, Grab The Wheel Of My Pick-up" again - Crowley took a vested interest in religious zealots, and, yes, regularly did his research on them - swear to Someone...

 

 

 

 

_Silence._

 

 

 

 

Well, not quite silence, there was still the faint static of radio, but no butchered country music with narrow-minded lyrics. No simpering requests for donations. No talking. No nothing.

Crowley raised his head.

The radio stood on the counter - the _empty_  counter - still eerily silent, and Crowley suddenly realised he was alone in the café.

Jackets thrown over the backs of chairs and abandoned purses all around him, half-filled cups and leftover pastries, even a waiter's notebook laying between the tables as if its owner had simply dropped it where they stood.

Crowley swallowed, pushing himself up on almost-trembling legs.

The pram. Empty, safe for a blanket and a little stuffed bunny.

A shattered cup, amidst a puddle of congealing tea behind the counter.

A myriad signs of life, but not a single soul far and wide.

 _This can't be happening._  Crowley's head reeled.

_It can't._

 

He staggered back, grasping the portable radio and going through the frequencies on his unsteady stumble past the tables, silence, automated music, silence, static, test sound...

He burst out of the café, and saw the empty streets, the driverless cars, a confused dog running in circles, trailing a leash behind it.

"No." Crowley groaned, horrified. _"No..."_

The radio in his hand suddenly screamed out a burst of static, and, in a horrid, distorted whisper, began speaking:

 

_Below the thunders of the upper deep,_

_Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea..._

 

Tennyson, 'The Kraken', Crowley thought automatically.*

 

*A certain angel had taken in onto himself recently to further educate him in matters of literature.

 

And then, in a flash of panic,  _Aziraphale!_  

What if he... what if...

Crowley forced down most of the bone-deep terror flooding his veins and was just about to break into a run for the bookstore - thank Someone it wasn't far - when a bright streak cut through the air before him.

Crowley faltered.

A tiny puddle of fire burnt on the pavement right in front of his feet. As he watched, another splashed about a meter to his left.

Feeling all that carefully forced-down dread rise up again, Crowley slowly, slowly, looked up.

Charcoal clouds were roiling and swirling above London, blood-red lightning flashing across grotesque faces there one second and gone the next, raining _fire_  down onto the city.

Crowley could see fireballs as big as comets in the distance, crawling through the air until they slammed into a building, skyscrapers buckling under their force and crumbling like so many sandcastles.

Chaos.

Pandemonium.

 

_Armageddon._

 

 _"The latter fire shall heat the deep, in the END, the END, the END"_ the radio crackled darkly, and Crowley let it drop from numb fingers, just another abandoned item in the streets, and ran.

His thoughts were full of fire and Aziraphale and _not again not again not again,_  and never in his six thousand years - not even on the air base - had Crowley been so utterly, sublimely terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know, the demon Crowley invented cliffhangers!  
> ...he thinks it might've been a step too far... ;)
> 
> Feels strange, not to have any Nutterian to translate... then let me just mention that the poem is obviously not mine, but Tennyson's.
> 
> Thanks again to everybody for giving kudos (passed 1000!!!) and leaving such lovely comments! I'll answer them all eventually, rest assured...  
> \^-^/ <3 <3 <3


	14. This Time I Know It's For Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, same warning as before, it gets a little dark with Apocalypse-typical mild horror. Nothing too bad, if you keep in mind that this is a light-hearted story in essence, and the Matchmakers planned _something_ beforehand...
> 
> Also, there's one scene I wrote BEFORE the series came out, swear to Adam, and was very startled to watch a very similar version of. You'll probably know which one...
> 
> Enjoy!

Crowley ran.

The air was heavy with sharp smoke, and his lungs felt as if they were burning themselves,* and he never thought of stopping even for a second.

 

*One might think Hell prepared one for noxious fumes and some such, but they were actually rather conscientious to avoid such matters down there. They'd even invented smoke alarms, though they took care to have them go off in the middle of the night sometimes to make up for it.

 

A sudden instinctive fear made him glance up, and that split second was only barely enough. Throwing himself backwards, he just about managed to duck into a doorway as fire splashed all over the street, leaving it a field of crackling flames.

"Sssshit!" Crowley hissed, backing up as far as he could.

The fire felt _holy._

Not the touch-it-and-die Holy Water kind of holy, but just holy enough to actually pose a threat to a demon like Crowley.

He blessed again, pressing himself flat against the door at his back.

The Holy-ish Flames were slowly spreading, and even staring his demise in the fire-rimmed eye, Crowley's only thought was _how am I going to get to Aziraphale now!?_

A spark jumped up and sizzled on the exposed skin of his hand.

Crowley hissed in pain, trying to shy away even further and failing.

He doubted any creature in all of Heaven and Hell and Earth both could and would save him now.

 

 _"Well I tell you my friend,"_ Freddie Mercury sang Beethoven in the distance, growing louder and louder. _"This might seem like the end, but the continuation is yours for the making!"_

 

The Bentley swerved around the corner, driverless and not caring one whit about the fire licking at its boiler, and Crowley was unashamed to admit he might've swooned a little.

"Oh, my precious, brave...." He gasped, as the Bentley drew level with him. "I'm sorry, so sorry for what I said, I never meant-"

 _"Baby, I don't care."_ The Bentley cut him off sharply, car door opening by itself, a clear invitation to get in.

"Yes. Yeah." Crowley somehow managed to clamber in without touching the ground - which was, quite literally, lava - and the Bentley sharply turned and raced back through the flames before he'd even gotten his hands on the steering wheel.

"Are you very cross with me?" Crowley asked hesitantly, slumped in his seat as the Bentley pointedly drove itself, and feeling quite useless.

 _"I'm slightly mad,"_ it admitted stiffly. _"Just very slightly mad."_

"That's fair." Deeply ashamed, Crowley pulled his knees up to his chest - not like there was any need for him to use the brakes or some such - and watched the burning streets go by, a little terrified of reaching the shop and finding it in flames again.

 

 _"One thing's still true."_ The Bentley finally offered gently, just as they rounded the last corner. _"When I look and I find, I still love you."_

"Oh." Crowley said, a little choked.

(Demons were, obviously, incapable of crying and producing tears.

Crowley's eyes just moistened a little, that was all there was to it.)

They came to a stop, and before Crowley scrambled out and made a run for the bookshop, he took a single, brief moment to rest his hand on the Bentley's dashboard and, softly, say "thank you".

Its motor gently purred in response, but Crowley was already halfway across the street and no longer heard it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The bookshop was not on fire, and it was a testament to how low the bar had been set that Crowley felt like he should thank God and Satan and Adam and Whoever Else for that alone.

"Aziraphale!" He gasp-shouted. What if he wasn't there, what if he was gone, what if, what if... "Angel! Azira-"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale burst out the door, eyes reddened and clutching a damp handkerchief* he'd clearly been wringing between his hands, and Crowley staggered to a stop, heart nearly bursting with sheer, undiluted relief.

 

*Angels, however, were built rather close to water, and were, no matter what they might say themselves, very ugly criers.

 

He faintly noticed Aziraphale's gaze straying towards something above his head, eyes widening suddenly, and the next thing Crowley knew he'd been pulled under the awning of the bookshop and, more importantly, into Aziraphale's arms.

Behind him, a chunk of blaze and charcoal hit right where Crowley had been standing.

"Oh, thank Heavens, thank Heavens, thank..." Aziraphale was whispering shakily into Crowley's shoulder, and to Hell if it had only been to pull him out of danger, Crowley was going to take advantage of this.

He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's slightly-trembling form, and held on as tightly as he could, pretending he wasn't shaking pitifully himself.

 

This went on for quite some time, and neither of them even thought about letting go.

 

 

"Idiot snake," Aziraphale finally sniffled, "giving me a fright like that!"

He pressed his face into Crowley's suit jacket in a manner that suggested he would normally dab the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief at this point, but had to make do.

Crowley said nothing, only buried his own face in Aziraphale's fluffy cloud of hair.

"What on _earth_  possessed you to leave the Bentley here!?" Aziraphale scolded weakly. "When the initial _strange occurrences_  came up in the news, I tried to, your 'phone... you didn't answer, I rang ten times at least, and then I look out the window and see the Bentley there, empty, and, oh God, oh _Crowley,_ I thought... I thought... what was I supposed to..."

Crowley could imagine what Aziraphale had thought; likely it had been the same as the sentiments that had flashed through Crowley's mind back when he'd reached the bookstore and found it in flames.

(Only in platonic, of course.)

"I... I'm fine." Crowley muttered, a little helpless in the face of Aziraphale's obvious distress.

"Yes, well, I know that _now._ " Aziraphale sniffed primly, but clung on to him even tighter nonetheless.

"And I'm very glad for it." He added, so softly Crowley could only hear it because his ear was currently so close to Aziraphale's mouth. "I wouldn't know how to go about..." He faltered briefly, clearly groping for a euphemism and coming up short. " _...this_  without you."

Crowley might've snarked something referring to Aziraphale's own temporary absence during the Antichrist business, but found that, in light of the current situation, he'd rather savour this moment of quiet, wrapped around each other for what might well be the last time as the world burned.

 

 

"Er, I'm sorry dear boy, but..." Aziraphale finally pulled away, and noisily blew his nose with the handkerchief.

Crowley instantly missed his presence, but supposed he was glad Aziraphale hadn't dribbled snot all over his jacket.*

 

*REALLY ugly criers. There was no more disgusting sight in existence than a dozen of angels blubbering pitifully over Maria leaving Baron von Trapp and the children behind.

 

"At least the humans are already gone." Crowley muttered quietly, watching the façade across the street get splattered in embers. "Are we the only ones left, do you think?"

Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes, and didn't answer. His other hand was still clutching Crowley's arm.

"Always thought the whole Rapturing nonsense was... well, _nonsense."_ Crowley continued to muse. "Didn't think it'd ever happen."

"Oh, but it _is_  nonsense." Aziraphale sighed. "Merely something _they_  thought up for the elitists to feel reassured. Heaven does NOT bother itself with saving humans. They never have."

"And yet..." Crowley gestured at the empty, burning buildings.

"And yet." Aziraphale agreed helplessly. "I had the suspicion that, since what I felt in the moment of... of 'Rapture' was neither malicious in itself, nor particularly holy, Adam might have... I tried to ring Lower Tadfield, but _no-one_  is answering their phone!"

Crowley bit his lip, gazing out at the storm.

"How do we stop this?" He asked softly.

"Stop this?" Aziraphale laughed weakly. "Dear boy, I've no idea if it even _can_  be stopped at this point. Much less the effects reversed."

"But we have to try."

"We must, yes." Aziraphale sighed, straightening his bowtie and tugging the lapels of his overcoat into place. If you couldn't look dapper at the end of the world, when _could_  you look dapper? "Even if we should die trying."

Crowley raised one eyebrow at him. "That's a bit defeatist, don't you think, angel?"

"My dear!" Aziraphale exclaimed, affronted. "The world is, quite literally, in the process of ending. I do believe I'm voicing legitimate concerns!"

Now, _that_  Crowley couldn't argue with.

 

 

"Speaking of the world's end..." He said instead. "Shouldn't there have been... signs? Beforehand? Whatever's happening here, whoever's responsible, both sides like to make themselves known, don't they?"*

 

*Humans always reacted to impending doom by either spontaneously finding religion or sinning their little hearts out, and Heaven and Hell were quite aware of that.

 

"Yes, that is quite..." Aziraphale's confused frown suddenly flickered into horror.

"There were." He whispered tonelessly, grip tightening. "Crowley, there _were_  signs! The strange weather, the torrential rain, almost like a biblical flood!"

"Oh." Crowley said. "And... and the plague of rats in Soho."

"The nuns trying to contact you!"

"Even the Bentley behaving strangely..."

"The shape-shifting snake assassin!" Aziraphale groaned. "Oh, it all makes sense now!"

"Wait, the WHAT!?" Crowley interjected sharply.

"Oh, right, I've not told you... I'm rather sure it started out as a puppy. Kitten, at the very least."

"Bloody Hell."

"Indeed." Aziraphale wrung his hands. "And the power fluctuations we experienced... it was all right there, we were just too... too _blind_  to notice!"

 _Or too distracted by your loveliness,_  Crowley thought bitterly.

"We're really rubbish at this Apocalypse business, aren't we?" He muttered.

"Rather." Aziraphale agreed with a sigh.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They went to the Bentley before the fire storm got impossible to navigate without protection, and then just sat there, staring out at pandemonium and trying to think of a single thing to do.

Tadfield suggested itself, both for Adam and the nuns that, perhaps, still resided there, but this seemed curiously centered on London, and besides, they could go there and find not a soul, having wasted valuable time they _really_  couldn't afford to loose.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale piped up all of a sudden. "What does this little red number here mean?"

Crowley glanced over at the part of the dashboard he was pointing at.

 

Now, whether or not the Bentley had a car phone or not fluctuated, depending on whether or not Crowley needed one at any given point.*

 

*And, to a lesser degree, if the Bentley's ever-evolving philosophy deemed it unseemly to have one.

 

But it most definitely _never_  had an ansaphone before.

The little red number cheerfully blinked, informing Crowley he had three new messages.

Crowley pressed play.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You have. Three. New messages. First message._

 

"Aye, Mr. Crowley, sor?" Shadwell's voice crackled out of the speakers. "Sorry t'be botherin' ye, sor, 'xcept... there be foul witchcraft afoot taenight, ah tell ye. Thooght ye shud know."

A brief pause.

"And, sor, 'nother thing... s'aboot mah Jezebel."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale and Crowley glanced at each other. That barely sounded like old Shadwell at all, too pained and, dare one say, _frightened._

 

 

* * *

 

 

"She's bin actin' most p'culiar, sor. Speakin' wicked tongues an' such. Wailin' 'bout t'end o' times. What if she's the de'il in her? Ah tried exorcisin', but... ah dinna ken..."

Some quiet noise in the background. Steps.

"Jezebel? Wuuman, nae, put that duwn, go back tae- _Jeze-!"_

The clatter of a phone dropping to the ground.

The sounds of struggling.

And then a bang, very clearly the old Thundergun discharging, disproportionately loud and sharp.

A heavy, wet thump, and then nothing but silence.

 

_Message ends._

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was silence in the Bentley for at least a minute.

A red two still flickered from the ansaphone.

 _Nothing for it_ , Crowley finally thought, and reached out again with a trembling finger.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Second message._

 

"Hello!? He- I... This is Anathema Device, Adam told me to call this number, I, I..."

Anathema sounded as if she was very nearly sobbing, that type of wet, panicky gasps that spoke of true desperation.

"Please, he's gone all strange, he said, he said, St. James's park, and the Prophecy... help us, oh God, whoever this is, please, Newt is- he's- Adam's not responding anymore, and his Dog-"

A sharp shriek.

_"OH GOD PLEASE HELP US HELP US HE-"_

 

_Message ends._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a horrified look. The angel looked paler than he'd ever seen him, and Crowley felt like he was about to be sick himself.

The little number one blinked threateningly, red like blood.

Aziraphale was the one to press play this time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The third message was nothing but the screams of children.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"God Almighty." Aziraphale said faintly into the following silence.

"I don't think He's going to help us any." Crowley responded hoarsely. "Or He would've never let it happen in the first place."

Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut as if in terrible pain - the truth hurt, sometimes - and folded his hands together.

"God?" He whispered desperately. "Metatron? Heaven? Principality Aziraphale calling, is anyone there? Hello? Anyone?"

Crowley clicked on the radio.

Empty static.

"Dagon, hey!" He attempted a bit of false cheer while Aziraphale was still pleading for response beside him. "Look, you guys probably want nothing to do with me, but... all that new Apocalypse stuff up here... that's your- _our_  side doing it, isn't it? Was just wondering. Might help."

Nothing.

"Dagon?" Dread was rising somewhere in a crevice of Crowley's heart, flooding through his veins to the very tips of his fingers.* "Dagon, respond. Dagon!"

 

*This was what truly frightened him. At the end of the aeon, earth was mortal and immaterial, but Heaven and Hell... they were meant to be eternal. Around forever. There if you really, _really_  needed them.

Being unable to reach them, for whatever reason, felt like hearing your childhood home had been burned down by some maniac; suddenly untethered and alone in the world, and very, _very_  scared.

 

He clicked the radio off again. The empty static felt as if something crawled over his skin, and he was freaked out enough as it was.

"Seems like we're cut off."

Aziraphale nodded, bloodless lips pressed together.

"Anathema... oh, the poor, dear girl... she said something about St. James's." He muttered hesitantly. "I really don't know what use it could _possibly_  be now, but..."

"Alright." Crowley kicked the Bentley into gear, and off they were.

It wasn't as if they had much in lieu of other options, was it?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Crowley pulled up to the curb in front of the park's entrance.

The sky overhead was a vortex of bloodied-grey clouds, writhing and boiling around what was clearly the eye of the storm, mercifully devoid of fire rain.

Crowley barely noticed. He'd spent the entire ride sneaking glances at Aziraphale, pensive and quiet beside him, and thinking _this might be it. You might never see him again. You might die for good. Worse, HE might. Should you say something? Tell him? No, what would be the use now? Hold him again, perhaps. If he asks. Yes._

"This is it, angel." Crowley said instead of any of that, sombrely. "The End."

"Yes." Aziraphale worried his lip.

One last time, Crowley thought what it would be like to kiss him, and then wrapped that thought up and gently let it go.

 

It was silent for a moment.

 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale suddenly burst out, grasping his arm tightly. "What if we... there are no humans here, not this time, there are no humans _anywhere,_  we don't... we don't _have_  to..."

Aziraphale closed his eyes, drew in a shuddering breath, and when he opened them again he was gazing at Crowley with a pained expression that he couldn't decipher for the existence of him.

 

"We should run."

 

Crowley surely hadn't heard right.

"We should _what!?_ "

"Leave!" Aziraphale exclaimed desperately. "Not walk straight into certain death! Flee for our lives, that sort of thing!"

Crowley stared at him incredulously. "Angel, have you gone _insane?_ "

"Perhaps, yes!" Aziraphale snapped. He certainly looked the part, a desperate madness gleaming behind his eyes, grip so tight it was nearly bruising.

"Where would we _run to!?_ " Crowley shot back. "Heaven hates us, Hell hates us, and that's not even _mentioning_  the fact that we haven't managed to reach either and it's quite possible one or both of them are behind this, and anywhere on earth... is probably not going to be an option for much longer. We have nowhere to hide!"

"Well what about, er... the Kasterborous Constellation! That lovely little iceplanet Delta Vega? Mars, if you insist on staying in this neighbourhood!"

"They'll find us there eventually, angel." Crowley muttered, resigned. "You _know_  they will."

"Then, then... let me go alone, Crowley, please!" Aziraphale begged. Outright begged! The world really was ending. "Stay behind, and if things go, ah, _unwell_  for me, you might still-"

"No." Crowley wrenched his arm from his grip, face stony. "Not an option. Never an option."

"My dear-" Aziraphale whispered helplessly.

He reached out again, but Crowley stopped his hand halfway.

"I. Am not." He hissed, low and dangerous. "Going to _sit here_  and _watch you die._  Together or not at all, Aziraphale, and we both know it'll have to be together."

 

And this was it.

The perfect opportunity to confess something along the lines of 'my existence would be worth nothing at all without you by my side. I love you, and loosing you, truly and forever, would break me.'

Or just say 'I love you'. That might suffice.

 

But the fact that Aziraphale seemed to _genuinely believe_  Crowley was capable of leaning back and letting him go like a lamb to the slaughter stung far too much for that. 6000 sodding years, and Aziraphale still tended to think the worst of him.

Fuming, Crowley grabbed his trusty tyre iron, exited the Bentley with much more force than the old thing was accustomed to, and stomped off towards the park entrance.

"Crowley, wait!" Aziraphale scrambled after him, struggling to keep up.

Crowley was rather cross with him and was fully committed to leaving him behind, _let him see what that feels like,_  but the angel looked so honestly ashamed and contrite that he caved a third of the way in and slowed his step.

"I apologise." Aziraphale said wretchedly, and a bit out of breath. "This is a terrible business, and I should not have expected you to... only, my dear boy, I don't think I can stomach the thought of you dying if it was for naught."

"And you think I can?" Crowley scoffed.

"Well, that's fair." Aziraphale sighed. "Wouldn't it be funny, if a demon were a brave man, and an angel a damned hypocrite?"

 _Not really._  Crowley thought, but didn't say.

If it wasn't funny, then it had to be tragic, and this entire thing was wretched enough as is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not _believe_ how surprised I was by Crowley asking Aziraphale to run away to the stars instead of fight... at least it means that I managed to stay _eerily_ in-character, right?  
> (Well, not so much since here it's Aziraphale asking, but still.)
> 
> And don't worry, it'll get happier during the next chapter! There's a light at the end of the tunnel...
> 
> (Oh, and, congratulations to everybody who guessed that the Prophetic Tidbit would be about End of the World 2: Apocalyptic Boogaloo! Though I did love all the other options...)


	15. Death All Around Will Be Your Dowry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a bit... but I promise it'll be worth it!  
> Again, very mild horror and even a swear word (scandalous, I know), but also a bit more of the usual ridiculousness.  
> Enjoy!

It was deceptively quiet in St. James's park.

There were no humans, obviously, no playing children, no tourists milling about, no strange men furtively passing sealed envelopes back and forth.

There was only emptiness, the only sounds created by the wind, the gentle waves, and an abandoned Walkman near the waterfront, which was still playing Queen's 'The Prophet's Song'.

It came out of the speakers faint and tinny and just the tiniest bit unnaturally distorted, all harmonies cold and far too sharp.

A hungry little duck was pecking vainly at a piece of the rubbish driven across the ground by the wind like so many leaves, until it let out a pitiful quack and sank to the ground, feathered body withering away to a skeleton in the blink of an eye.

Instantly, two of its equally starved kinsducks began fighting viciously over the plastic wrapper it had been attempting to eat, tearing into each other with terrible war cries until they, too, succumbed and turned to dust and bones.

The three figures at the waterfront had been watching them delightedly, wind tugging at their leather jackets and making the leftmost one's metal scales clink together ominously.

 

Famine, War and Pollution did always revel in their work.

Death wasn't with them... except he was.

He always was.*

 

*You can see him now, if you'd like. He's right behind- no, don't turn around. Just peer to the side, the very edge of your vision, do you see it? Sense it? That is Death, waiting for you.

Go on, try it. He's not going to hurt you...

_...yet._

 

They smiled as they saw Aziraphale and Crowley approach.

"About time." War crossed her arms in front of her chest. "We were waiting for you."

"We can begin, then." Famine added.

Pollution put his dirt-stained fingers in his mouth, and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

"All right, which one of you clowns is going to tell us what's going on here?" Crowley demanded, drawing on bravado he didn't actually possess. "Who's behind this? And what have you done with the humans, you-"

The Horsepersons didn't seem inclined to answer his questions, especially not considering the expletives that followed.*

 

*Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would've admonished him for that kind of language, but these were not normal circumstances by a long shot.

 

War, her beautiful face pulled into an ugly mocking smirk, merely jerked her head to the right.

A procession of nuns - Chattering Nuns - was slowly approaching, their hands folded before them, singing and chanting their praise of Satan.*

 

*In part, Aziraphale and Crowley were quite relieved to see humans again; but the fact that these humans were Satanic Cult members - and singing what sounded very much like some of the darker pre-summoning prayers - was far less comforting.

 

"Oh dear." Aziraphale murmured. Things were not looking good, overall.

"Crowley?" He whispered, eyeing the nuns warily. "You might well tease me about this for the rest of our lives, as they are, but... would you think much less of me if I asked you to hold my-"

He hadn't even finished the sentence when Crowley tightly grasped his hand, squeezing for all it was worth.

"I don't think either of us has much life left to tease the other, angel." He muttered seriously, and perhaps a little sadly. "So, since it barely matters what we-"

Crowley suddenly broke off, visibly tensing, not unlike a cobra rearing up and flattening its neck.

"Aziraphale." He whispered tonelessly. "Adam is here."

"He... he is?" Aziraphale craned his neck, looking this way and that. "Are you sure, my dear?"

"Angel, I delivered the damned child myself!" Crowley hissed. "I'll know his aura when I feel it!"*

 

*We will be tactful now, and not mention the decade he spent taking care of the wrong boy. Crowley was making a point here, it would be quite impolite to undermine it.

 

"There!" Aziraphale gasped suddenly.

 

One nun walked far behind the others, head bowed, a slender, fragile thing stumbling under a heavy burden.

Cradled in her slender arms lay Adam, too small and too pale, eyes closed and arms dangling lifelessly.

There were splotches of dirty red dotting his golden curls, as well as the white piece of cloth wrapped around him, though no obvious wounds could be seen.

Crowley had feared Adam nearly all the time he'd known him, but in that moment, all he felt was an overwhelming need to pull him close and guard him from all harm.

This wasn't the Antichrist who could end his existence with a bored blink.

This was their godson, who, yes, hadn't exactly seen much of them for the majority of his life, but they'd been there when it counted, and, in their own way, dearly loved him.

"Adam!" Aziraphale called out, that exact nuance of sudden god-parental feeling in his voice, already moving and Crowley ready to follow and rip the child from the nun's arms, miracling any wounds away, protecting him with their lives if need-

 

War stepped into their path, Aziraphale's old sword loosely held in her hand.

Crowley hissed instinctively.

"Oh, get out of my way!" Aziraphale frowned irritably, most of his attention focused on Adam's too-still form.

"I don't think I will." War drawled, idly twirling the sword in her hand. "Don't take orders from stuffy old representatives of the patriarchy, you know."

"Dear lady!" Aziraphale snapped, only now looking at her. "Patriarchy or no, you are attempting to keep a Principality from his godson _with his own sword!"_

He glared.

"Kindly. Reconsider." He bit out.

(A pleasant shiver went through Crowley at the sight of Aziraphale being so... well... domineering*. He carefully ignored it.)

 

*Viewed with anything but the eyes of love, Aziraphale's air was closer to that of a middle-aged lady insisting to speak to the manager _right this instant,_  but seeing as that request had been founded by a few well-placed demonic suggestions of Crowley's in the first place, perhaps that wouldn't go over much worse.

 

War's face quite literally _split_  into a Glasgow smile.

And then she threw her head back and laughed, hair flaring out behind her, writhing like flames and dying creatures.

Famine and Pollution joined her, and as their laughter echoed, they seemed to _shed_  their human forms, growing taller and somehow _vaster,_  and one could scarcely believe to have thought them human once.

War's skin hardened into scales of metal armour, and Pollution simply seemed to ooze out of his, while Famine grew thinner and thinner until he was nothing but a cloak and a gaunt face.

They loomed far over Aziraphale and Crowley, even over their ethereal (and occult) forms, which could span a galaxy if they so chose.*

 

*Beings of angelic stock were in no way oversized, merely big-souled.

 

War raised her sword - and it _was_  HERS, now - which was dripping with blood and gore, fused to her hand, and mockingly gestured for Aziraphale to approach.

 

Aziraphale was by no means a coward.

He was sensible and liked to avoid unnecessary danger, of course, but if need be, he would charge into the breach without a second thought, flaming sword in hand or not, ready to defend what he held dear.

Aziraphale's eyes followed a glob of gore drip from the very tip of War's sword.

Then they crept over to Adam's still form in the nun's arms.

He swallowed.

 _Don't._ Crowley begged him with his eyes. _That's madness. Angel, please, don't._

Aziraphale straightened up, a hint of steel now in his bearing.

"I said." He stepped forward, putting on his most smiting-ly expression. "Out of my-"

 

War's sword came down.

 

If Crowley had not ripped him back by their joined hands, Aziraphale would've been cut right in half.

"Angel," Crowley hissed, "we'll be no use to the boy discorporated!"

The nuns' chanting grew louder and louder, and one after the other, they walked into the lake, praising Satan as they went.

"Then what do you propose we do?" Aziraphale hissed back. "Nothing!? THEY HAVE OUR GODSON, CROWLEY!"

"Well... I..." Crowley thought quickly.

"Oi!" He shouted to the nuns, throwing a wary glance at the Horsepersons. They were still their intimidating selves, but made no move to stop him. "You! The chatterbox nun carrying the Antichrist! You bring him back _right now,_ you hear?"

The nun kept her head bowed, unerringly approaching the waterfront.

"It's ME, you empty-headed fools!" Crowley snapped, uselessly waving the tyre iron in a vaguely threatening manner. "Your Master Crowley! I _COMMAND_ you!"

The nun took her first step into the water. Adam twitched in her arms, and let out a little whimper.

"I..." Crowley's voice cracked. "I command you..."

The girl turned, and Crowley recognised the shy nun from Aziraphale's bookshop.

Her eyes were wide, skin pale as ash, but a fervent, deranged smile pulled her face apart.

 _"For your glory, Lord..."_ Sister Ethel whispered, a breathy sigh full of reverence and devoid of anything else.

"YOUR GLORY!" The other nuns echoed.

"No, please." Crowley begged. "Bring the child..."

"Our Lord approacheth!" Sister Mary Loquacius exclaimed with all the mindless joy of a fervent fanatic. "He cometh from fire and from water, and of the storm! Your servants are waiting, Lord!"

She spread her arms. The other nuns in the circle did the same.

"And before You arrive, we shall profess all our secrets unto You, so that we may look upon You with lighter hearts!"

"I cheat at cards!" One nun cried.

"I'm not wearing anything under this robe!" Another shouted.

"Neither am I!" The one beside her added enthusiastically.

"I killed someone!" The next crowed.

The nuns all blinked at her.

She shrugged. "Well, he had it coming."

Nods and chatters of "oh, that's alright then" all around.

 

"And I," Sister Mary announced proudly, "have broken my vows to You, Lord, for I love Ethel, as fervently as I never should've loved anyone but You!"

(Sister Ethel mouthed _and I you,_  but that was a small, private thing nobody saw but Mary.)

"So, if ANY of you have similar secrets to impart on Him before the End..." For some unfathomable reason, Sister Mary meaningfully winked at Aziraphale and Crowley at this point. _" Let them speak NOW,_  lest they must hold their silence forever!"

The implication was lobbed at them with quite some force... aaaaand went right over their heads.

 

 _Right. Of course. Right_. Sister Mary rolled her eyes.

"Well, now that _your hearts are free of burdens..."_ She seemed to be glaring at someone, but there were only Aziraphale and Crowley in that direction, was there perhaps someone standing behind them?

"Sisters, commence the ritual!"

Another surge in chanting, complete with eyes rolling into the backs of heads and strange twitching here and there.

Sister Ethel took her position in the middle of the circle, water lapping around her waist, waves almost appearing to _reach_  for the child in her arms.

"Look," Crowley tried again, desperation bleeding from every pore. "I won't be mad, just bring the child over here and nobody gets hurt. Clear?"

"Oh, bugger this." Aziraphale muttered beside him, and took a step forward again, forcing Crowley to follow, because NO WAY was he letting go of Aziraphale's hand.

(Not in _this_ life, at the very least.)

 

 

But it was too late.

 

 

"Praise him, praise him!" The other nuns chanted, and steam was rising from around Ethel in great billowing clouds, white empty splotches in reality.

 _"Praise Our Lord,"_ she whispered through bloodless lips, eyes wide and alight with beautiful visions of hellfire and damnation.

(Aziraphale and Crowley both reached out - mostly metaphysically though a bit of literal reaching was employed, too - ready to burn through all the power they had still at their disposal to wrench Adam from the nun's arms.)

And then, Sister Ethel dropped the Antichrist into the water.

("No!" They both gasped in unison.)

 

 

The effect was instantaneous.

 

 

The water enveloped Adam like it was eating him, just swallowing him right up, and instantly began to sizzle, to boil, to churn like a living thing and turn black like tar.

No, not like tar. Like an oil spill, except that no rainbow colours shimmered over the surface, only faint waves of the exact crimson shade of blood.

The nuns shrieked with delight, even as the boiling water - _water....?_  - consumed them, too, until they were entirely lost among the waves and the smoke.

The Horsepersons cheered, in their vast, inhuman voices, and Aziraphale and Crowley clung to each other, stricken and utterly terrified.

 

("Adam," Aziraphale whispered, unimaginable sorrow in his voice. "Oh, _Adam."_

And Crowley's eyes maybe grew a little moist again for the godson they'd never _quite_  had.)

 

And then, something seemed to rise from the writhing liquid the lake had become, unspeakable forms breaking through the surface, tentacles and claws and terrible eyes that shone with darkness even as they were rotting in their sockets.

Crowley had heard tales of the Unimaginable Terror, the Creature of the Depths, the World-Ender of Olden and Future Days, and though those tales never described it, this Horrifying Figure really did look as if it came close.

 

 

He dropped the tyre iron - what good could it possibly be against _this_  - and let out a little whimper of fear. Beside him, Aziraphale let out a similar noise.

The Nightmare Being seemed as tall as the sky, spilling over the edges of the lake and of reality, stretching out into at least five more dimensions that Aziraphale and Crowley could see.

And it seemed to be looking right at them.

Crowley knew that they were as good as dead, then. He knew.

(So did Aziraphale. It was quite hard not to pick up on it.)

 

 _"I love you, angel."_  Crowley whispered under his breath.

 

...but much too quiet for _anyone_  to hear, much less Aziraphale who was understandably not paying terribly much attention to anything except the Unspeakable Being scrutinising them.

The Dark Eyes widened.

 **You. Speak up.** The Living Nightmare commanded, in a voice that resonated in your chest as if it was imprinting itself over your heart and lungs.

Aziraphale blinked. Glanced at Crowley.

Crowley studiously pretended to slowly merge with the lawn under his feet.

The Creature pointed one weirdly spiky appendage at him.

 **Speak.** It repeated.

"A-about what?" Crowley feigned both bravery and innocence.

 **You said something**. The Horror of End Times insisted, voice echoing through time and space. **Say it again, and louder.**

"Don't think I should, it was a very rude word." Crowley bluffed.

**No it wasn't!**

"Yes it was."

The First and Greatest Monster looked like it was getting a headache, never mind if it didn't have a clearly distinct head to speak of.

 **Whatever.** It growled. **Be that way.**

It made a dismissive gesture with a tentacle that also had the potential to be interpreted as very rude indeed.

 **Will just have to destroy the universe then, I suppose.** It Of Many Cruelties pouted.

 

"Er. About that..." Aziraphale piped up, a little unsure. This was not how the Heavenly Host's propaganda machine had described It Who Ends the World, not even _remotely._

"Are you sure that... look, I'll try to be polite but _you just had my godson sacrificed to you_  - are you _sure_  that ending the world and whatever else is not the most pointless, moronic and badly-thought-through idiot idea you've ever had in all the centuries of using your miniscule pea brain!?"*

 

*Aziraphale had a worrying tendency to insult people right when they were about to kill him. The Puritan who accused him of fornication - the Esteemed Reader surely remembers - was referred to as "a sarding fopdoodle, and an utter fustilarian!" as he was leading Aziraphale to the hanging tree.

(And that's not even _close_  to what he called his lady mother...)

 

"Steady on, angel!" Crowley hissed. "Just because we're as good as dead doesn't mean we have to be suicidal!"

 

The Apocalyptic Horsepersons stared.

"Should we kill him, Lord?" War asked, offering her sword.

"Only say the word." Famine rasped.

Pollution dribbled and wobbled as if he was nodding.

 ** _Should_  I kill him?** The One Who Dead Things Became When They Die mused darkly.

**I could, you know. End him with only a thought.**

It waved a claw, and suddenly Aziraphale was stumbling, weeping blood and gasping for breath.

He tried to take a step and nearly fell, reaching out for Crowley, who caught him just in time.

"H-he didn't mean it, O Lord of the Pit!" Crowley grovelled quickly - Hellspawn tended to enjoy being grovelled to - while struggling to keep Aziraphale upright. "He's just a silly angel, _please,_ he's not worthy of your attention, leave him be, _I'm begging you!"_

 **Any last words? Either of you?** The Shapeless Mass asked. Some parts of it that vaguely resembled eyebrows waggled.

Aziraphale, blood now dribbling steadily down his face, croaked something that might've been _'go to Hell'._

Crowley, a little impressed with the mouth his angel had on him even in a situation such as this, obligingly voiced that sentiment for him, and, holding Aziraphale close, braced for a death more permanent than mere discorporation.*

 

*If he was _lucky._

 

The Imposing Figure heaved a sigh that resonated in the very core of the earth.

 **You two, I swear.** It murmured, pinching the bridge of one of its more nose-like snouts. **This is no fun.**

It gestured at them once more, and just like that, Aziraphale was perfectly fine again. Even the blood on his coat was gone.

Aziraphale blinked. Touched his dry-again cheeks. Didn't make any move to leave Crowley's arms.*

 

*He'd just had the second proper near-death experience of his entire existence - also counting the previous Apocalypse - and quietly believed one could indulge oneself after that.

 

 

 **You know, maybe I _won't_  end the universe.** The Lord of Destruction And Darkness boomed thoughtfully. **I could even put it all to rights again. But, you know, only if I get something for it.**

"Quid broke woe." Famine nodded sagely. (Perhaps he'd read it in a comic?)

"It's only fair!" War agreed heatedly. "Nature always demands equal exchange, and it's just the male chauvinism in our society that prevents it!" (Perhaps her mother had said something of the like?)

Pollution only wobbled disgustingly, empty wrappers amassing around him. (Perhaps he hadn't been paying attention and eating sweets and crisps instead.)

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a look that was equal parts disbelief and hope.

"And..." Aziraphale started cautiously. "What kind of thing might you be wanting...?"

 **I want**... The Creature thought, rubbing the wartiest of its many chins. **I want...**

 

 

 

The universe held its breath.

 

 

 

 **...you two to kiss each other.** The Terrible Looming Figure demanded.

 

 

 

It was very, very quiet for a moment.

No pin was dropped, but a nightingale on a nearby branch took the opportunity to emitt a single, accusing chirp.

 

 

 

"Er." Aziraphale shot Crowley a helpless _this is all just a dreadful nightmare isn't it_  look. "I'm sorry, I think I misheard."

"Kill." Crowley helpfully informed the Figure. "The word you're looking for is 'kill'. Llllll, not ssssssss."

Understandable mistake, enunciation must get dreadfully challenging with fangs like that. Crowley could relate.

 **No.** It boomed insistently. **You two. Kiss.**

Aziraphale was having something curiously close to an out-of-body experience* as he watched the Great Horror of the End Days mime kissing with its clawed hands.

 

*It felt strangely like discorporation. Had he maybe been struck down by War's sword, after all?

 

"Really, you _must_  be getting it wrong!" Crowley tried once more, nearly desperate. He'd already spent far too much of his existence on earth pointlessly (and miserably) contemplating Aziraphale in the context of kisses, did he have to do it in these last few minutes, too?

 **Nope.** The Horror crossed its most arm-like pair of tentacles. **Kiss.**

"No, see, Aziraphale and me kissing, that's _completely_  ludicrous, and what would you even get out of it?" Crowley blustered and flustered, voicing any argument that came to mind in the desperate hope one of them would stick. "You merely want to humiliate us before the end, don't you? As if you'd leave existence alone just because we- well. There's quite a few things more enjoyable I could procure for you, try out a bit of earth culture, maybe you'll like it!"

The Unholiest of Creatures didn't give the impression that it would.

"Or... er... ah..." Crowley racked his brain, there had to be _something_  to dissuade it from-

 

 

 

"Oh, FUCK it!" Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly, that bastard-ish part deep inside of him _relishing_  the opportunity to swear more enthusiastically than he had in millennia,* if not ever.

 

*The last time he'd cursed up a comparable storm had been when his wing had gotten caught in the hinges of the Eastern Gate. They say even Crawley had blushed upon hearing it.

 

And with that said, he gripped Crowley firmly by the lapels, whispered 'sorry about this, my dear', and then proceeded to oblige the Terrible Apparition for the good of humanity and with no ulterior motives at all, cross my heart and hope to discorporate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless, they got there!  
> What a way to end a chapter, eh? ;)
> 
> (Plus, I just want to point out, YES, the Matchmaker Army went brutally overboard, but just look how many opportunities went right over their heads! This scheme had Plan B's all through the alphabet, and it was still only _barely_ enough...)
> 
> All my love once more to all the wonderful people enjoying this story! <3 <3 <3


	16. To Be True Lovers Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is surprisingly long, because of course they've actually got precisely NOTHING figured out, even after The Kiss.  
> Idiots.
> 
> Enjoy!

(One day, Crowley was certain, little demonlings would gather around him, and eagerly demand he tell them of how he had become the first demon to seduce an angel into making a wide variety of efforts.

And he'd gladly tell them of how he had slung his arms around Aziraphale, who had whimpered and clung to him desperately, as Crowley demonstrated all the skills he'd amassed throughout centuries of Temptation practise.)

 

 

Crowley flailed somewhat pathetically, eyes wide and shocked, half frozen and half jittering with panic, heart racing, racing, racing like it had a hellhound at its heels, only Aziraphale's hands at his lapels keeping him upright.

Aziraphale was _kissing_  him, and Crowley hung in his grasp like a particularly shell-shocked wet haddock.

 

 

(Were angels good kissers, the demonlings might ask. And Crowley would answer, 'not particularly', he'd say, 'terribly chaste overall, nearly prudish, until an expert demon taught them better, of course'.)

 

 

Aziraphale kissed like... well, like the devil*.

 

*Not like Crowley had any personal experience with the 'The Devil' devil, but it certainly seemed worthy of His Hellishness. If Crowley had a soul, he would've sold it on the spot.

 

Forward as anything, quite insistent and when had tongues become part of the equation anyway!? He rather suspected Aziraphale now knew his tonsils better than Crowley himself, and seemed quite intent to introduce himself to other organs further along.

He might've squeaked pathetically, but that was easier said than done with a mouthful of angel.

 

 

(And then, Crowley would continue the tale, describing how Aziraphale had swooned, nearly Fallen, from the magnificence of that first kiss, and offered himself to Crowley for all eternity, which he'd magnanimously accepted, the poor thing had clearly been hopelessly head over heels for him, before continuing to Tempt the angel with his forked tongue in a variety of ways, not least of which his seductive eloquence.)

 

 

The kiss ended, as all things must, even the best - and/or worst - moments of one's life. Crowley was simultaneously immeasurably relieved and heartbroken.

For only the briefest instant, they were still ever so close, Aziraphale's eyes fluttering open - Crowley had never actually managed to close his - and shining with hope, fear, yearning and mournful resignation.

And then, Aziraphale pulled away, with the same firm conviction he'd exhibited when leaning in.

"There." He sniffed, semi-calmly patting Crowley's lapels back into order.* "That should've done it."

 

*His hands shook a little, but Crowley's eyes were fixed very firmly on Aziraphale's mouth, and so he took no notice.

 

"...guh?" Crowley managed. His mouth hung open quite unattractively, and Aziraphale gently tapped his jaw to close it.

"Apologies, my dear, but, I thought... one kiss for all of humanity, all of existence..." He guiltily ducked his head. "It wasn't a _terrible_ hardship for you, was it?"

"Hah?" Crowley blinked quite gormlessly.

 

 

(Yes, Crowley would reminiscence fondly. One of his proudest moments as a demon, most certainly.)

 

 

"It doesn't have to, to _mean_  anything." Aziraphale fidgeted a bit. "We can consider it a little buss between good chums, eh?"

Crowley stared at him incredulously, still unable to produce as much as a single coherent word.

THAT had not been a kiss between... _friends.*_

 

*Crowley nearly broke out in hives just _thinking_  the word 'chums'.

 

If it had, then Crowley had clearly been doing something wrong all his existence - either kissing, or having friends - because, to reiterate, THAT HAD NOT BEEN A FRIENDSHIP KISS.

By Crowley's surprisingly limited understanding, as soon as anything but lips got involved, the encounter could no longer be termed platonic, and, well, his mouth still tasted faintly like angel all the way back to the tonsils.*

 

*Cotton candy and that very unique taste you get by licking a battery, it the Esteemed Reader is wondering.

 

Aziraphale looked stricken by Crowley's reaction, which he very much interpreted to be a refusal to as much as speak to him.

"I... yes. Of course." He whispered, very nearly close to tears. "I've taken a terrible liberty, haven't I? Without even asking..."

He put on a brave face, and a vaguely pained smile. "I understand if you don't wish to see me for a while, dear boy. Only... only _please_ say you will try to forgive me one day, yes?"

Crowley wanted to form words so very badly, but failed once more.

"Because, if saving the world means loosing you forever, oh..." Aziraphale closed his eyes briefly. "Crowley, my dear, I would've let it all _burn."_

Just when Crowley was almost ready to speak, that struck him dumb again.

"Agh." He managed, but that didn't quite suffice to eradicate the sadness in Aziraphale's eyes.

 

 

"So there, we kissed!" Aziraphale raised his - shaky - voice, blinking away tears.

"Are you satisfied n-" He turned to snap at the Terror of All Souls Living And/Or Dead, but the words stuck in his throat.

It was as if all the fire and brimstone and, well, Apocalypse, was simply a cheap sticker slowly peeling off of reality again, revealing a lovely, calm Sunday afternoon underneath.

The charred trees shook the ash from their branches, the little skeletons scrambled up, quacked, and waddled back to the still pond glittering in the sunlight, while the skyscraper ruins in the distance pushed themselves up from the ground and settled back into their accustomed places.

The dark clouds broke up in tiny fluffy ones lazily crawling across a crystalline blue sky, and the oppressive heat nudged itself down a few degrees into pleasantness.

And the Apocalyptic Horsepersons started laughing and high-fiving, shrinking down into three rather familiar little brats decked out in improvised crown, scales, and sword, chanting "we did it!" over and over again.

In the bushes behind them, an even _more_  familiar girl had jumped up and thrown her arms around the young man whirling her around, both of them shouting "they kissed, they kissed!" with an enthusiasm that would've been out of place even at a wedding.

"What the Heaven!?" Aziraphale breathed.

(Crowley, for his part, was still re-learning how to use his respiratory system after The Kiss, and subsequent Admittal of Priorities, so he failed to comment.)

Madame Tracy struggled out of her cover behind the bushes a little slower, aided by a grumbling - but oddly smug - Ex-Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwell.

"Coooeee, Mr. Aziraphale!" She waved to him. "If you'd like, you could borrow some of me whips for later, dear! Though I'm sure your young gent already has a pair of cuffs..."*

 

*Crowley did not, in fact, possess handcuffs. Aziraphale, however, did, they were white and fluffy, and he would never ever _ever_  tell Crowley the truth about how he'd acquired them, or what for.

 

 

Aziraphale repeated his earlier sentiment, though now with more emphasis and a quite naughty word thrown in.

Crowley blinked, because never had a situation warranted a disbelieving blink more.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Abyssal Agglomeration was still there, but it seemed smaller, less horrifying against the baby blue sky, and the fact that it was radiating palpable delight only added to that effect. Somehow, every single one of its many mouths seemed to be smiling.

(All around it, nuns were surfacing from the water that was only water again, dripping wet and laughing. They all wore snorkels with cute little devils painted on, and matching diving goggles.)

And then, the Not So Horrifying Creature made a strange wriggling motion with a limb that really didn't seem like it was made to wriggle, and then it was gone.

In its place, a reallyreallyVERY familiar little boy stood in the middle of the pond, a soggy white sheet draped over his shoulders, and the single most triumphant smirk on his face.

"About TIME!" He shouted, and then proceeded to cackle in a manner that would've made Agnes Nutter terribly jealous.*

 

*In fact, it probably did.

 

All the nuns cheered, the closest two picking him up and carrying him to shore on their shoulders, nattering on about _how well done that was, o Lord! Simply fantastic, so convincing, absolutely amazing!_

Adam preened. He was quite firmly planning to be a little insufferable after so much - well-deserved! - praise and adoration.*

 

*For weeks to come, "yeah, but I got my godfathers to kiss, so there!" would be the final argument in any discussion among the Them.

 

As soon as he was set down on dry ground, the three ex-Horsepersons piled onto him, laughing and hugging and celebrating.

A white-and-black blur shot past Aziraphale - who was fighting his angelic instinct to coo at the happiness of children - and barrelled into the pile, barking happily and licking the ketchup-blood from Adam's hair.

It was one of the single most endearing displays in existence, and just as Newt, emboldened by their recent success, turned to Anathema and started "actually, will you ma-", this beautiful scene was broken up by Aziraphale shrieking.*

 

*He would prefer another verb, of course, but at a pitch such as that, it was most definitely a shriek.

 

"What in _TARNATION_  is the meaning of this!?" He demanded angrily, and perhaps a little squeakily.*

 

*Dog whined, spontaneously reminded of Brian's 'broken' whistle that had driven him quite mad.

 

The Matchmakers exchanged confused looks.

Aziraphale and Crowley did not seem like two men(-shaped beings) who had just found eternal happiness.

Quite the contrary: Crowley looked as if he was one soft "boo!" away from a heart attack - and couldn't stop touching his lips as if he was afraid they might drop off - and to call Aziraphale furious would be a brutal understatement.

Furious people _cowered_  under the glare of a truly incensed Principality. People were going to be smitten, and not in the good way.*

 

*Though War's sword had obviously never been a proper weapon, the tyre iron had somehow found its way into Aziraphale's hands, and was begining to spark at the edges.

 

"Well, dearie." Madame Tracy began, either oblivious to the anger directed at them or believing their shared-body-experience would keep her safe. "We simply couldn't take all the pining anymore, could we?"

"Aye. Too bluddy much." Shadwell grumbled beside her. "Great big pansies. Bin waitin' for ye t'kiss fer since I ken ye!"*

 

*He really had. Even Shadwell could connect very obvious dots, and both Crowley and Aziraphale had very few people to speak about the respective other with...

 

"What!?" Aziraphale's eyebrows briefly shot up, before they lowered into a glare again.

"If two people are in love an' fail to do anything about it," Wensleydale informed him primly, "then their friends have an obligation to make them."

All the Them nodded.*

 

*If this was truly a sensible mindset to have is up for debate, but we remind readers again that the Them had very little idea of how romance actually worked.

 

"We're not-" Aziraphale started.

"Let me stop you right there." Anathema interrupted. "Yes. Yes you are. Agnes said so, and Agnes is never wrong."

"You were _miserable!"_ Adam added, when Aziraphale still had his smiting face on. "And you're my godparents, I don't like you to be miserable. Way I see it, we made it so you could be married and happy! I don't understand, why are you two so angry?"

 

(Ah. Aziraphale and Crowley both thought. There lies the misapprehension.

Of course, their understanding of the problem was slightly different:

Poor humans, Aziraphale further developed that thought. They see me in love, and Crowley mildly fond of me, and don't realise that demons are regrettably incapable of feelings such as that, and the sentiment is unrequited.

Poor humans, Crowley continued to think. They see me in love, and Aziraphale mildly fond of all of existence, as angels are, and don't realise that demons are regrettably incapable of inspiring feelings such as that, and the sentiment is unrequited.

They were both mistaken themselves, of course, but for two absolute idiots, they had remarkably high opinions of their own intellects.)

 

"Why are we- why are we _angry!?_  Dear boy, you put us through _literal Hell on earth!"_ Aziraphale spluttered with indignation. "I thought I was going to die! _I thought Crowley was dead!_  And then, you force us into a non-consensual and unwanted-"

Crowley winced. _Yes, go right ahead and pour salt into the festering chest wound_ , he thought to himself.

"-kiss! How, by the Grace of All that is Holy and Unholy, did you _think_  we were going to react!?"

Adam blinked.

"I've actu'lly not thought that far." He admitted.

The rest of the Matchmaker Army, nuns included, vaguely echoed that sentiment.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Aziraphale took a deep, deep breath, and went to his happy place for a moment.*

 

*A quiet cottage, with a comfy chair, hot cocoa and a few lovely books, though the snake normally curled up by the fireplace was conspicuously absent.

 

 _They meant well, Aziraphale._ He told himself. _Good intentions, good intentions, love thy neighbour and not smite them to Kingdom Come, no matter if they've been playing you for a fool, lousy, rotten- They. Meant. WELL._

 

"Look. That was rather sweet of you," Aziraphale said, calm again but for the slightest neurotic twitching in his temple. "But the fact of the matter remains; Crowley and I are _not_  in love!"

"We aren't!?" Crowley choked out.

"We aren't." Aziraphale confirmed firmly and with quite some firmness. "...are we?"

"Hngh." Crowley said unhelpfully, and looked like he was contemplating screaming, throwing up, or a combination of the two.

"And even if, er, _one of us_  were to develop that sort of, ah, attachment..." Aziraphale continued, too occupied with pulling a guilt-ridden grimace to notice that Crowley was doing the same. "There's no point to it if the other doesn't feel the same!"

He shook his head in exasperation. "How could you even _think_  there might be something mutual here? Crowley's a demon, he can't love at all even if he-"

"Yes I can!" Crowley snapped.

"You can?" Aziraphale startled.

"I can." Crowley confirmed.

"Oh." Aziraphale blinked. "Right."*

*For a brief moment, hope kindled in his eyes, before it was snuffed out again by the realisation that, to use the kind of simile humans like the Esteemed Reader will understand, the only thing worse than falling in love with a straight boy, was falling in love with a boy who swung your way - just not towards YOU, specifically.

The humans (plus Antichrist) exchanged some smug looks.

"Still!" Aziraphale didn't like the look of those looks at all. "Just because Crowley _can,_  theoretically, love, doesn't mean he loves me specifica-"

"Yes I do!" Crowley snapped, more out of reflex than anything.

 _"You do?"_  Aziraphale's head whipped around to stare at him.

"...I do!?" Crowley repeated, the horrifying realisation of what he had just let slip dawning on him. "I- I, yes, suppose that... I do."

"Oh." Aziraphale swallowed hard. _"R-right."_

The looks got exponentially more smug.

 

("Good old Agnes." Anathema put one arm around Newt and grinned. "Gets it right every time.")*

 

*There was, in fact, one instance in which Agnes had gotten Great-aunt Isobel's roulette numbers wrong; leading her to loose quite a bit of money and swear off gambling for good.

The rest of the family agreed that, incorrect numbers or not, Agnes had still gotten it right in an abstract sense.

Some lessons simply had to be learned the hard way...

 

Aziraphale then proceeded to grow very quiet, staring into space in a distinctly shellshocked manner. Not that Crowley could blame him, all things considered, but a dumbstruck angel was not a particularly helpful angel, and Crowley had never, in all his long existence, been more in need of help, in whichever form it came.*

 

*Some might argue the shameful events of 2774 BC had this moment beat, but Crowley had long ago declared that Something Best Forgotten, so we can safely assume he'd like 2774 stricken from the record.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"On three," Pepper informed the gathering at large, "we all say 'We told you s-'"

"Oh for- yes, for Someone's Sake!" Crowley snapped, glaring at the smug bastards with their smug looks and their smug grins. "There, I said it, the truth is out! Hah hah, look at the stupid demon, in love with an angel, isn't that FUNNY!"

 

(It wasn't. Crowley had tried to see the comedic irony for centuries, but it simply wasn't. Not to him.)

 

"As if my sheer existence couldn't get any _more_  embarrassing for Hell." He added, a little quieter and a lot more bitter. "But... can you even blame me?"

He glanced over at Aziraphale, in his frumpy sweater vest and rumpled shirt, with ungainly, stubby fingers and squint lines around his eyes, the very picture of an unremarkable bookworm, and plain in only the most mediocre of ways.*

 

*Which was very nearly worse than being ugly. At least people _remembered_  ugly faces, mediocre plainness generally failed to stick in one's head for any measure of time.

 

"He's _gorgeous._ " Crowley said softly, and, to his horror, found he meant it with all he had in lieu of heart.

 

(Somebody let out a little cooing sound. Shadwell would forever deny it was him, but methinks the Witchfinder doth protest too much...)

 

"And that's the problem!" Crowley shook himself out of that brief moment of pure adoration and continued forcefully. "He's an angel. They're _made_  to be venerated. What difference does it make if one more idiot demon thinks he's hung the moon and the stars!?"*

 

*Aziraphale had, to be precise, only nudged Mercury into place and assembled part of the Swan constellation with the help of the celestial equivalent of an IKEA manual, but close enough.

 

"And me?" Crowley laughed bitterly. " _I'_ _m_  the one who talked humanity into damning itself. Literal embodiment of evil right here, and Aziraphale might spout some grand words about caring for me deeply nonetheless, but an angel can't _truly_  love a demon!"

He deflated, feeling more tired than even before his century-long nap.

"Especially not me." Crowley finished wretchedly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

 

(The exchanged looks were now more on the guilty and/or pitying side. Why Crowley had ever thought them worth dying for, he had no idea.)

 

"So, if nobody's going to start an Apocalypse in the next half hour..." He eyed Adam the way a mouse eyed a particularly volatile tomcat. "I suppose I can go and hibernate for at least a hundred years in the foolish hope that this doomed confession will just erase itself from history. Aziraphale, thank you for not reacting negatively - or, you know, _at all_  - and..."

Crowley allowed himself a final indulgent moment of gazing wistfully at him. Aziraphale was still rather slack-jawed, but hey, it wasn't anger or, Someone Forbid, _pity,_ he could work with that.

"See you in 2090, I suppose."

Aziraphale blinked at him, much like he'd blinked at Darwin after hearing his theory on evolution. Like he couldn't quite believe what had just been said, and was half expecting his conversation partner to start laughing and confess it had all been a marvelous prank.

 

If only it were.

 

"...ciao." Crowley waved awkwardly, wondering whether discorporation and the ensuing unpleasantries in Hell would be worth the guarantee of not seeing hide nor hair nor feather of Aziraphale for a while.*

 

*Even in century-long naps, the angel tended to occupy his thoughts, and there were some dreams Crowley _really_  didn't have the nerve to revisit at the moment.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Wait." Aziraphale squinted, holding up one finger.

Crowley would've liked nothing more than to just ignore this request and make for the Bentley as if the _real_  Apocalyptic Horsepersons were after him, but something - probably Adam - kept him rooted to the spot.

If humanity ever got around to inventing time travel, he was going to head back to the day of the Antipocalypse and firmly tell his past self that keeping earth in existence wasn't _actually_  worth it, all things considered. Most definitely.

 

"Crowley, you..."

"Yes, angel." Crowley said miserably.

"You, you..."

"Oh, come, don't drag it out."

"...you DAMNABLE HYPOCRITE!" Aziraphale exploded, in the frankly terrifying manner of people not commonly prone to exploding, but determined to give it their all nonetheless.

The captive audience of humans (and variations thereupon) took a reflexive step back, aside from Crowley, who was still fixed to the spot.

"How dare you," Aziraphale seethed, all righteous wrath and may-the-might-of-the-Lord-smite-thee, even worse than when directed at the Matchmaker Army. "How DARE you play affronted when you make the exact same assumptions! Demons can love, eh? But angels _can't!?_ "

"Now, I didn't say _that!"_ Crowley argued quickly. "Demons! You can't love _demons,_  Azi-"

"Can't love demons!" Aziraphale laughed incredulously. "And can't love you either, _I presume_  - my dear boy, at least do me the courtesy of not mocking me outright!"

"Pardon?" Crowley said very, very politely. Surely he had misheard.

"You've been Tempting me since _Babel,_  Crowley, don't think I haven't noticed!" He huffed. "I'm not sure if it makes you less or more of a bastard if the thought never even crossed your mind that I might develop feeli-"

"When," Crowley said terribly, incredibly sweetly, "have I been _Tempting_  you, please?"

"Oh, only all the time!" Aziraphale threw up his hands in despair. "The cheekbones, Crowley! And the wine, the eyes, the charm, and the, the... the sheer _Crowleyness_  of you!"

"I'm ssssure I don't follow." Oh, satanblessit, the nerves brought his snake lisp back. Great.

"And that!" Aziraphale pointed triumphantly at his mouth. _"That!_ You wouldn't _believe_  the thoughts your 'silver tongue' has put in my head!* Oh, "When did I Tempt you", _INDEED!"_

 

*Crowley would later find out about the existence of a discreet leather journal chronicling these thoughts in obscene detail - both metaphorically and literally - and instantly declare it the most valuable item in Aziraphale's bookstore, misprint bibles be blessed.

 

Crowley croaked wordlessly. His mouth was rather dry all of a sudden. Aziraphale. Having thoughts. Thoughts. About him. And his tongue. Aziraphale. Tongue. Him. Thoughts.

"NATURALLY I love you, Crowley!" Aziraphale's shrill, on-the-verge-of-panicking voice ripped him out of those rather pleasant considerations. "How could I NOT!? You're..." He gestured wildly. _"...you!"_

"Oh." Crowley was feeling a little faint, actually. And not just because most of his blood was evenly split between his cheeks and... further down. Efforts were made, and redoubled.

"'Oh', he says!" Aziraphale crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared. "Yes 'oh', you damned genius! And don't think you'll get out of this just by-"

"Aziraphale." Crowley interrupted, gazing at him in a strangely intense manner. "Angel. You. You love me."

Aziraphale blinked at him, a realisation shouldering it's way through rampant thoughts (about Crowley's tongue, mainly) to the forefront of his mind.

"And you love me." He finally said, softly. "Actually, properly love me."

"Well. I did say." Crowley shrugged awkwardly. "Just now, yes, but I _did_  say."

He reached out, fingers hovering just short of brushing Aziraphale's cheek.

The angel leaned towards him, into the contact.

"I'll continue saying it for the rest of eternity, if you'd like me to. It'll never be untrue." Crowley said quietly, and that was a much nicer confession than what he'd blurted out before, much nicer indeed, and so terribly _true_  and earnest that Crowley's demonic self nearly shriveled under it.

"Oh." Aziraphale breathed, eyes wide and brimming over with love. "Oh, my dear boy."

 

 

They gazed helplessly at each other, in the manner of two who have been gearing up for the argument to end all arguments, and suddenly find themselves to be of one mind regarding the controversy in question.

 

 

"...dinner?" Crowley finally suggested, only this side of shy. "You and me?"

"At... at the Ritz?" Aziraphale asked, a little wary, as if he was still expecting Charles D. to snort and say 'just kidding about being descended from apes, Zira old sport!'*

 

*Crowley had sworn up and down that Hell had nothing whatsoever to do with evolution, but had granted that it was _very_  funny, and gone to buy Darwin a pint once he'd ensured Aziraphale was settled and breathing steadily into a bag.

 

"Angel, anywhere you like, I don't care. As long as it's with you." Another of those statements that rang almost uncomfortably true. Badness, Aziraphale was going to turn him actually _honest_  one of these days.

"How about we. We, ah, could..." The angel was sporting an actual, honest-to-Satan flush, redder in the face than Crowley had ever seen him. "I have biscuits, at the bookstore. Somewhere. Probably. It would be slightly more of an, ah, _intimate_  gathering than at the Ritz."

Crowley couldn't help making a quite disgusting face halfway between besotted cow eyes and salacious smirk.

"Oh, hush, you." Aziraphale sniffed. " _Another word,_  and I'll..."

"Haven't said a thing, have I?" Crowley tried for innocent, but really beamed in an even more horrifying manner than before.*

 

*He could count himself very lucky that the age of readily available camera phones had not yet arrived, because otherwise the Them might've collected enough blackmail material to last them the lifetimes of several generations.

 

"And you better keep it that way, my dear." Aziraphale's prim demeanour was noticeably cracking as well, and when he held out his hand, he was smiling softly.

Crowley took it reflexively, without even a moment's hesitation.

They swayed a little towards each other, and it occured to Crowley that he still had his honour to defend in the matter of kisses. Best to resolve that as soon as-

 

 

"Oh, _just_  like on _Coronation Street!"_ Madame Tracy clasped her hands together in delight, and Aziraphale and Crowley remembered quite suddenly that they were _not,_  in fact, alone in the world.

Or even the park.*

 

*Again, thank Heaven/Hell/Wherever for the not-yet-invention of camera phones.

 

They exchanged a look.

Crowley arched an eyebrow in a rather expressive manner. _Should we?_

Aziraphale bit his lip - _oh, we really shouldn't, however much I WANT to_  - but finally gave a curt nod, a downright _wicked_  tilt to his furtive grin.

Simultaneously, they whirled around to face those ghastly voyeuristic matchmakers with their very best enraged expressions.

In Crowley's case, this included fangs, scales, a few less limbs, and maybe a good helping of maggots.

"Carelesssss foolssssss!" He hissed. "Ssssstarting an Apocalypsssse for _thissssss!_ "

WHAT WEREST THOU THINKING. The Principality of the Eastern Gate boomed beside him, wings and holy fire flaring out around the many-eyed being of pure light and divinity that nowadays went under the name Aziraphale.*

 

*It still appeared to be wearing a ratty bowtie.

 

TO ABUSE THINE POWERS SO.

"Playing with heartsssss! With the _private livesssss_  of othersssss!"

DISGRACEFUL. I AM FILLED WITH SHAME TO HAVE ONCE BEEN THY CHAMPION.

"You need to learn to keep your ssssssnotty nossssessss out of other people'sssss busssssinesssss!"

 

The Matchmaker Army was already beginning to look suitably cowed, but this was only the beginning.

 

"Nunssssssss!" The Being That Was Not Quite Crowley hissed. "You turned againsssssst me, your Massssssster!"

The Chattering Order huddled close together, wailing and moaning in fear. Sister Mary protectively shielded Ethel best she could.

MADAME. The Being That Was Far More Than Just Aziraphale intoned grandly, radiating divine disappointment. SWINDLE THY CUSTOMERS, IF THOU MUST; I THOUGHT THEE A FRIEND. PERHAPS I THOUGHT WRONG.

Madame Tracy gasped, eyes brimming with the tears that gazing upon a truly angelic being produced.

"Now, ye leave 'er..." Shadwell started.

"Don't sssssspeak," Crowley interrupted sharply. "Or I might bite sssssomething of yourssssss off. Might ssssstill, actually."

AND THOU. SHAME UPON THEE, NEWTON PULSIFER. THY SENSE, AT LEAST, I THOUGHT SOUNDER THAN THIS.

Newt whimpered.

"Sssssuposssse we can't really blame you." Crowley added towards Anathema, cruelly condescending. "How'sssssss it feel, being your ancesssssstressssss' _pet?"_

"Now, wait just a-" Anathema tried, but couldn't get a word in edgewise.

CHILDREN.

"Yeah. You... sssssstupid bratssssss." Crowley sneered, somewhat lamely. Angry or not, he'd always had a soft spot for the little things.

I SHALL ONLY TELL THEE ONCE: THOU MUSTN'T MEDDLE WITH THAT WHICH THOU DOST NOT UNDERSTAND YET.

Adam protectively stepped in front of the other Them, who stared at the Holy and Unholy apparitions in horror.

THAT APPLIES TO ALL: Aziraphale spread his wings wide. GO FORTH, AND NEVER ACT THUSLY AGAIN!

"Thisssssss," Crowley informed them helpfully, "issssss where you _RUN."_

And so they all did.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Many-Eyed Being of Pure Beauty, and the Terrible Serpent of Eden exchanged a glance.

And then they broke out in what passed for laughter in those forms, delight and happiness vibrating through the dimensional planes beside them.

 

 

WAS THAT TOo much, do you think?" Aziraphale asked, still chortling slightly, as he melted back down into the body of the unassuming bookshop owner.

"Honessssssstly don't think it could've been if we tried." Crowley stood still and let Aziraphale pluck leftover maggots from his wings.* "They dessserved the fright they got, and more."

 

*They both still had them out, it felt ever so good to stretch them again.

 

Aziraphale hummed, removing the last maggot.

"You were magnificent, by the way." His light conversational tone was betrayed by the slight blush spreading over his face. "Quite beautiful."

Crowley laughed. "Nah, angel, that was you."

He pointed at himself. "Demon. Scales. Maggots. Ugly."

"Not to _me."_ Aziraphale said seriously.

Crowley's heart did a little tap dance. A heart attack was still possible.

This time he leaned in first, and even got a chance to demonstrate _exactly_  what really weird things his tongue could do, until Aziraphale proved himself somehow Much Better At That, and took charge.

Still, Crowley's honour was appeased, and there could never be a downside to kissing Aziraphale.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"I _really_  only wanted to help!"

Aziraphale and Crowley pulled apart with a little wet sound.

Adam still stood there - the only one not intimidated by their forms - with Dog hiding behind his legs, and he looked shockingly close to tears. "We all did, honest! You two were sad, and, and you did so much for us. F-for me. I really... really only meant to-"

He sniffled. Adam, as a rule, cried very little, because boy's books and movies told him you shouldn't, unless it was a Really Big Deal, or you couldn't help it.*

 

*Pepper said that was rubbish, but Pepper said that about a lot of things, it was quite hard for Adam to keep track.

 

This did seem like a Big Deal to him, though. He'd done so well, and was only getting scolded. That kind of thing hurt, enough to squeeze a tear or two out of his eye.

"Oh, Adam..." Aziraphale sighed, and went to gather him up in his arms, with only the slightest bit of the stiffness he habitually adapted around 'young 'uns'.

"We know, dear boy." He said gently. "It's quite... well, not alright, not really, that was a very silly thing to do, but we forgive you."

"The thing with the road to hell is rubbish anyway." Crowley added, sauntering over and ruffling Adam's hair. "Good intentions make for very poor paving."*

 

*He'd actually tried in the beginning, but frozen door-to-door salesmen just developed fewer potholes on the long run.

 

Adam found that it was quite nice, hugging an angel. Aziraphale in particular was very soft, and hugged back nice and gingerly, not like his ghastly aunts who squeezed him until he couldn't breathe.

"I won't do it again." He solemnly promised, once he'd hugged his fill. "M'not changing things just because I wanna anymore, s'dangerous. But this once, I had to. Would've done it even if I couldn't... you know."

He made a motion with his hand that was quite probably code for 'scary Antichrist powers'.

"Oh, but Adam, really." Aziraphale tried very hard to appear at least stern, but any anger he'd harboured had long since evaporated into the aether. "You needn't have interfered. Crowley and I, we would've gotten ourselves sorted out even-"

"No." Adam said immediately. "Trust me. You wouldn't have. Nuh-uh."

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale shot him a 'don't undermine my scolding authority, Crowley' look.

"See, you're my godfathers, and I really like you two." Adam confessed, and Aziraphale and Crowley weren't sure if this was necessarily a good thing, to be liked by the Spawn of Satan, but they'd take it. "Even if you're a bit stupid sometimes. So you have to keep loving each other, yes? Not cheat on each other and then divorce like Brian's cousin's parents. That'd be sad."

"Seriously doubt that particular issue will crop up in a million years." Crowley muttered, a little too earnest to be convincingly sardonic.

" _Thank you,_  Adam Young." Aziraphale gave him a 'for God's sake Crowley, be polite to the Antichrist' glare. "We'll do our level best."

"Great!" Adam beamed, and the sun immediately shone a little warmer. "I'll go now - promise you'll visit? Yes? - so you can start kissing again and do yucky things like Agnes said you would. Come on, Dog!"

And in a burst of laughter and barking, Adam was gone.

"We have the Son of Satan's blessing." Aziraphale muttered faintly.

"So we do." Crowley agreed, subtly slinging his arm around Aziraphale's waist.

"Well." Aziraphale happily leaned into it.

"Yup."

"Well, I _never."_

"Yyyyyup."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Should we get married, then, now that our union has been blessed?" Aziraphale asked innocently.

The instinctive "yup" got stuck in Crowley's throat, and Aziraphale laughed all the while as he was coughing.

Bastard.

Crowley loved him so.

 

(And, just besides, as if he even needed to ask...)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was the last big chapter, pretty much! They got there in the end, didn't they?  
> Epilogue to follow! Oh, and I might put all the illustrations into an additional chapter at the very end.
> 
> Hope everybody enjoyed! So many comments... >happy writer noises<  
> ^-^ <3


	17. Epilogue: To Love And Live Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly me decided to write separate epilogues for nearly all the main characters... but, oh well, this story's called Good Endings after all, I'm just delivering on the promise of terribly sappy happy ends inherent in that.
> 
> At least I discarded the idea of drawing an illustration each... though I might still and add them later, so watch out for that maybe.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for sticking with this for as long as you have, you're all wonderful!  
> <3 <3 <3

Anathema and Newt

 

The Matchmaker Army was huddled on and around a wooden bench that creaked ominously under the weight, evenly split between hyperventilating and grumbling angrily about ungrateful not-pining-anymore idiots.

(The words "well, that went down like a lead balloon" hung unspoken in the air.)

"Those morons!" Anathema seethed. "How dare they!"

Newt glanced up from the paper bag he was breathing into to nod - he was not good with stress situations while not concussed, okay - and then went right back to trying to breathe steadily.

"All we did for them... and they just... ugh!" She flicked her hair out of her face most forcefully, looking as if she might well march right back there and give Aziraphale and Crowley what for.

But then her eyes dropped down to Newt, and she visibly softened. "Deep breaths, alright?" She muttered, rubbing his back. "It's okay."

He looked up at her with all the love in the world.

"What were you going to say before they interrupted us, anyway? Anathema suddenly asked.

Newt blinked up at her. Nobody was gearing up to stop him say it now.

 

For the second time this day, the world seemed to hold its breath.

And Newt, in that moment, had a bit of an epiphany.

 

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _I'm just being stupid._

_What does it matter if there's a ring on her finger or not? I love her, and she loves me. We have amazing- er. And me fretting and obsessing over something so arbitrary as a wedding - that I know will happen EVENTUALLY, anyway - is just plain silly._

_It'll all be well in the end. That's all I need to know._

 

"Just that I love you." Newt admitted, semi-honestly.*

 

*This was the second big-ish lie he'd ever told her, and certainly the more harmless of the two.

 

Anathema smiled. "You dork." She said fondly, and kissed him.

 

This went on for a bit.

 

"Know what, I've got an idea." Anathema said, as soon as they parted again, while Newt was contemplating whether he still needed to breathe into the bag.

 

"Let's get married, Newt." She said, out of the blue. "Right now."

 

Newt _did_  need the bag. Urgently.

 

"Right n-now!?" He stammered.

"Yes! And they're NOT invited, so there. See how they like that." Anathema crossed her arms, quite satisfied with herself. "Adam?"

"Yeah?" Adam, who had clearly been eavesdropping, was beaming delightedly.

"Think the registry office is open on Sundays?" Anathema winked subtly.

"Oh, it miiiiiight..." Adam winked back, quite a bit less subtle.  
Newt was fully hyperventilating again, Madame Tracy patting his shoulder with a rather smug 'told you so' expression.

 

 

Their marriage - well, elopement, more like - was witnessed by a retired Witchfinder Sergeant and an equally retired Jezebel, while an entire choir of nuns sang in the background and dripped all over the office floor.

Newt's mother, meanwhile, wondered how she got from Dorking, Surrey, to a London registry office, and why her son was currently tying the knot with a girl she'd never seen before but he obviously loved, no matter how terrified he looked at the moment.

It was quite alright though, she supposed, watching the four flower children and the one flower dog throw rose petals everywhere.

For some inexplicable reason, she had the feeling that all would be well...

 

And that this was not an end after all, but a new beginning.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Bentley

 

It hadn't been worried, of course.

No, the Bentley was a sensible car with unshakeable faith in its driver, and equally as possessed of a splendidly optimistic nature as he was.

It hadn't fretted for even a minute!*

 

*Though the Bentley, when pressed, might admit to 59 seconds of quiet frettage.

 

And the moment a wave of intense love crashed over it, even the last minuscule threads of concern faded away.

It kept a stiff upper bonnet, watching the world put itself to rights again with mild interest, and secretly quite feeling like doing donuts in the middle of the street, which was obviously terribly undignified and would NOT do.

And then, the gradual peeling-away of the Apocalypse revealed that the Bentley had been parked very close to another car the entire time.

It was a little blue thing, of Japanese make - my, the Bentley thought, how wonderfully _exotic_  - and for the first time in its entire existence, it felt...

 

Another automobile conscious.

 

The Bentley experienced a most curious sensation, as if its underfloor suddenly gave way, and its motor simply dropped out.

 _Oh, my._ It stuttered, as far as transmitting thoughts over car antennas could stutter.* _...hello?_

 

*Years, decades of sending messages into the aether with no response, and now, _now!_

 

 _'Hello', I say._ It immediately scolded itself. _What kind of a greeting was that!_

It tried again.

 _I don't believe we've made each other's acquaintance?_ It offered hesitantly.

The lovely blue thing stayed silent, and the Bentley felt as if its motor was stalling when it realised it's radio antenna was crooked, practically broken, not suitable for communicating at all.

And then, a mechanical voice spoke.

 

_On this bright day, I_

_Marvel at the sight of you._

_My name: Dick Turpin._

 

Goodness! The Bentley was quite enraptured. Named after a highwayman! How daring.*

 

*It had always had a bit of an affinity for Bad Boys, or rather Bad Entities Of Undetermined Gender.

(Exhibit A being, obviously, Crowley.)

 

 _Charmed. Quite, **quite**  charmed._ The Bentley batted its windscreen wipers. _Come here... often?_

 

_Not frequently, but_

_(Knowing of such splendour here)_

_Perhaps to visit._

 

Oh _my._  What a honeyed tongue! Er. Operating system.

 _Would you, perhaps,_ the Bentley began, and this, _this_  was what might 'make or break', to use a colloquialism, this budding acquaintance. _Merely hypothetically, be interested in reading a manifesto I currently find myself in the process of penning?_

 

_Even if I fail_

_To comprehend all; nothing_

_Would delight me more._

 

And in that moment, the Bentley rather fancied it might finally understand the true depth of that elusive feeling, that fleeting, neverchanging dream, that emotion which had started and ended wars;

And as, without even meaning to, Bach rang out into the lovely Sunday afternoon - a splendid little ditty by the name of _Seaside Rendezvous_ \- it occured to the Bentley that _love_  might be a wonderful topic to write about next.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Adam Young

 

"G'night, Pepper!" Adam called.

"Night, Adam!" Pepper, backpack slung over her shoulder, turned back to him one more time. She was still carrying the prop sword she'd played War with, and subsequently refused to give up; now she raised it in salute.

Adam grinned, and waved, waiting until the door clicked closed behind her.

It was a little strange, Adam thought, to all go back to separate houses now that the Rescue Mission was over. He was going to see the other Them again tomorrow morning, and yet he already missed them fiercely...

"When I'm grown-up," Adam told Dog, "I'll build a big house for all four of us - and a great big garden just for you - and we'll all live there together, eating pizza and watching as much telly as we like."

Adam sighed wistfully.

"It'll be absolutely _wicked."_

 

He rounded the corner, a little too quick - the street in front of Mr. R. P. Tyler's house was always best avoided* - and ran straight into someone who had been having a little stroll and a good pipe.

 

*In the next _Tadfield Advertiser,_  a letter began as follows:

_Sirs,_

_I have come to note with rising concern the late hour at which certain young individuals roam the streets without adult supervision._

_This night, I was only just returning from a late evening walk with my Shutzi, when..._

 

"Oh, careful there, lad!" Mr. Young said...

And then, quite suddenly, his brain recalled that he had a son, who had a dog and got into all kinds of trouble.

(Mercifully, his brain also glossed over the fact that he'd been entirely unaware of this for quite a few days by now.)

"Adam!" He exclaimed. "What, for heaven's sake, are you doing out at this hour!?"

"Dad!" Adam beamed up at him, only a hint guiltily. "I was just bringing Pepper home! Not making trouble or anything, so there's no reason to ground me!"

Mr. Young raised a dubious eyebrow.

"In fact," Adam puffed up with pride, "We were on a Rescue Mission, us and the rest of the Matchmaker Army. Oh, and the Chattering Nuns, too! I got a bun sacrificed to me, and Dog was a Snake for a while. It was pretty exciting!"

Mr. Young chewed on his pipe with a frown, trying very hard to figure out whether he was being made fun of, and a good grounding therefore still in order.

He finally settled on "come along, then", leaving the option of scolding open for later.

Adam skipped along beside him, Dog bounding a little ahead now and then.

Tadfield was very quiet around them.*

 

*Mr. Young never quite knew what to say to his youngest when it wasn't a reprimand. Sometimes, it seemed to him as if Adam saw an entirely different world than he did, and he already found it difficult enough to converse with adults who shared his viewpoints, never mind a child with entirely opposing ones.

 

"Is that one of our good spoons?" Mr. Young finally said, peering at the utensil sticking out if Adam's backpack.

"Oh, yeah." Adam shrugged with studied nonchalance. "I had to save my godfathers, I thought, and the New Aquarian says that only silver-"

"Godfathers?" Mr. Young was now quite certain on the being-made-fun-of-or-not front. "You don't have any _godfathers!"_

Adam looked up at him. His eyes were glinting.*

 

*Ever so strange, Mr. Young sometimes thought. Neither he nor Deirdre had eyes looking  _quite_  like that.

 

 **"Yes, I do."** Adam said, and it echoed deep in the (very shallow) pits of Mr. Young's soul.

He blinked.

"Oh. Yes. Of course." He puffed on his pipe, vaguely recalling Mr. Fell and his... close companion, Mr. Crowley.*

 

*This was a little surprising to Mr. Young, who had been aware of such relations only in the most theoretical sense, and yet had apparently known one such couple since Adam's birth.

Well, not that it matters, he thought to himself. Live and let live, I do always say.

 

"How are the two, then?" He inquired, as one politely inquired after distant acquaintances who were apparently his son's godfathers.

"They're good. _Really_  good." Adam grinned. "Thanks to me!"

Dog barked, nearly as if he was agreeing.

Mr. Young nodded, shifting his pipe in his mouth.

That was alright then, he supposed.

 

Quite alright.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Alberta

 

Life at the bookshop was good to Alberta. She* was watered an appropriate amount, got the good kind of fertilizer, and, best of all, had never heard anything but kind words from Aziraphale's mouth.

 

*The Discerning Reader may notice that Alberta no longer thinks of herself as itself, which can solely be chalked up to Aziraphale encouraging her to be whatever she wanted to be - she didn't mind the name Alberta, did she? No? Oh, wonderful! - and Alberta happened to quite enjoy the sound of female pronouns.

Aziraphale - who just _knew_  these things, sometimes - had said he thought she would.

 

Crowley still visited, of course, more frequently than ever, but was usually far too occupied with Aziraphale to put the fear of himself into the plants, so that was quite alright.

Alberta could simply grow whichever way she liked, in the company of dear old friends she had thought lost, and it was quite blissfully liberating, to be honest.

 

Trouble came to this little paradise only very, very rarely.

 

During one particular evening, for instance, she had just been deliberating a new sprout or two - no pressure - while Aziraphale sat reading in a nearby armchair, when Crowley began searching for something.

"Have you seen Eve, angel?" He asked.*

 

*Eve was the bookshop snake Aziraphale had recently adopted, citing the benefits of having a pet to scare off potential customers and guard the books as reason.

This was somewhat doubtful, since Eve was the most placid, friendly little creature on all of God's green earth - literally, Aziraphale had checked - and it was far more likely that she was there for Crowley's benefit, and Crowley's benefit alone, who made for a much better guard serpent in a pinch, anyway.

(And yes, the name had been Aziraphale's idea. He'd thought himself _very_ funny, too.)

 

This innocuous question instantly struck fear into Alberta's little plant heart, because Eve was currently curled up under her leaves.

The leaves which, reassured by Aziraphale's gentle whispers about body (well, stem, more like) positivity, had developed only a smattering of - still VERY noticeable - spots.

"By the plants, dear." Aziraphale waved vaguely in her direction, and Alberta photosynthesised like mad, hoping against hope to put the issue to rights before-

Too late.

A familiar terror gripped her as Crowley's gaze zeroed in on the offending spots, eyes narrowing.

 

This was it.

 

By his grace, she'd been granted a few precious weeks more, but Crowley was not in the habit of giving third chances, and Alberta just knew she'd _gravely_  disappointed him.

Crowley began stalking towards her, and Alberta found herself shivering, Oscar and Victoire noticeably trying to grow away from her.*

 

*It was every plant for themselves when Crowley was concerned.

 

Eve curled around her pot reassuringly, but that was not going to help her, it was the compost heap now, the garbage disposal, Alberta was done for, it was over, completely and utterly-

 

Crowley was stopped in his stalk by Aziraphale, who turned him around and kissed him quite thoroughly.

 _(Very_  thoroughly. The kind of snog where Crowley normally whispered "not in front of the snakeling"* halfway through, and dragged Aziraphale off to another room.)

 

*If any of the Esteemed Readers still believe that Aziraphale had acquired her as anything else than something for Crowley to mother, we refer them to this kind of behaviour, as well as the fact that Crowley had joined a young mothers' knitting group, and was halfway through a very, _very_  slim and long onesie.

 

"W-what was that for!?" Crowley eventually stammered.

"Oh, no reason, love." Aziraphale smiled serenely, settling back into his armchair and removing the bookmark from _The Importance of Being Earnest_. "I simply felt like it."

Crowley very, very nearly blinked.

Hovering just an inch or two above the floor - metaphorically, of course, demonic flight was quite a bit less elegant - he practically floated over to the plants, holding out his arm for Eve to slither onto.

He stared down at Alberta with a vaguely dazed sort of expression, trying and failing to remember what he'd meant to do or say.

Had Alberta had eyes, she surely would've squeezed them shut.

 

"Chin up." Crowley finally muttered, not even making the effort to appear particularly cross.

 

And then, whispering sweet nothings to Eve, he floated back to Aziraphale with the clear intent to just curl up in his lap and not budge for the rest of the evening.

Alberta visibly deflated, trying to calm her shaking leaves. Saved, at the very last second, by sheer, improbable coincidence.

 

(Had she been a little less blissfully relieved, she might've noticed that Aziraphale very deliberately winked in her direction while Crowley wasn't looking.

But she was, and she didn't, so she'd continue chalking this - and occasions very much like it - up to luck forevermore.)

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Madame Tracy and Shadwell

 

"Wave, Mr. S, wave!" Madame Tracy jabbed him with one elbow, the other one busy aiding the frantic waving she herself was engaged in.

Shadwell scowled, but vaguely gestured out the train window.

The Rajits were standing outside, the entire family, cheerfully waving back as the train slowly began to _chug-chug-chug_ out of the station.

Shadwell had insisted they could manage perfectly well on their own, but Beryl Rajit had taken one look at Madame Tracy's heap of luggage, and said "no".

And that had been that.*

 

*Mr. Rajit had even closed the store for half a day, which was quite exceptional and made that little part of Shadwell that was learning to be less of a prejudiced bastard feel quite... _gooey._

And that _that_  was the word he'd use to describe it... well, that was just the cherry on top, wasn't it.

 

"Oh, I _will_  miss them something fierce..." Madame Tracy sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with the trailing ends of her colourful scarf. "We'll have to send them postcards, and Christmas presents for the children!"

"Aye, wuuman." Shadwell agreed, offering her his handkerchief, which was much less of a biohazard since he'd started doing his laundry more often. "We will."

They sat side by side for a while, Shadwell watching the city melt into the countryside through the window, and Madame Tracy knitting placidly, keeping up a pleasant chatter that Shadwell would never admit he lov-

Liked.

_Liked._

 

"I am looking forward to it ever so much, though, for all that I'll miss London." She said at some point. "Our own bungalow! Oh, Mr. S, it's like a dream, it is. Our Shangri-la... and quite close to darling Adam and his friends, too! I might take up gardening come spring, though it is a pest on my knees... you could do the heavy lifting, I suppose. It'll be ever so lovely, the two of us, together..."

It _was_  a dream, Shadwell realised in that moment, looking at her from the corner of his eye, yet seeing nothing but her. And it _would_  be lovely.

Not just plain comfortable, but actually _lovely._

 

That realisation - that word - frightened Shadwell worse than the Devil did...

But sometimes, one had to be brave in the face of one's fears.

He'd been ready to face Satan Himself for this witch-adjacent harlot.

He could be brave for her again.

 

"Jezebel?" He interrupted her, a little roughly.

"Yes? What is it, Mr. S?"

"Ah- well." He cleared his throat.*

 

*This took quite some hacking and coughing. He wasn't smoking anymore, but that didn't negate the fact that he _had_  been for most of his life.

 

"Y'see... even if ye had a thoosand nipples, Jezebel, I wuldna boorn ye for t'world." He threw her a glance that was very nearly uncertain. "Ye ken?"

 

Madame Tracy knew her way around men and their grumpy, awkward, uncommunicative ways, so yes.

She ken'd quite well.

 

"Oh, _Mr. S..."_ She leaned over, and placed a single, soft kiss on his much-more-shaven-than-once-it-used-to-be cheek. "I love you, too, dearie."

"Brazen hoor." Shadwell grumbled, trying to bury his reddened face in his polka dot scarf.

But underneath it all he was smiling, in the kind of soft way he hadn't thought he would ever be capable of smiling when he'd been a child and hadn't known how to dream... and it was all for _her._

 

To some people, love was nothing more - and nothing less - than wanting to hold on to each other; be it at the End of the World or on a quiet train ride towards a shared future...

 

And to be brave enough to admit that.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The Horsepersons

 

"You know, I thought this was going to be a bore." Carmine Zuigiber swirled her Bloody Mary,* draping herself against the bar rather fetchingly. "But it's been quite fun."

  
*Complete with red food dye.

 

She smiled, the kind of smile that required a permit to carry.

"I love weddings. Think I've already seriously strained three decades-old marriages, and bet you anything I can start a fistfight before the reception is over!"

"I'll drink to that." Dr. Raven Sable raised his Black Russian. "Considering an angel is involved, this is more fun than I expected."

"Buffet not too plentiful for you?" Chalky White oozed over to them, daintily sipping at a murky-looking White Lady and holding a little bag of rice in the other. "Wouldn't think you'd like it..."

"On the contrary." Sable bared his teeth. "The _fatter_  the food, the more people abstain. All I have to say is 'oh, how many calories in this angel food cake, what do you think?' and they'll just starve themselves!"

Carmine laughed, throwing an elderly uncle of Wensleydale's a seductive look.

(When that didn't work, she threw one at his much younger wife, and got far more satisfying results. She'd have them arguing before the newlyweds had even finished their first dance.*)

 

*A gavotte, for some... _ineffable_  reason.

 

Chalky set his drink down - sloppily, so droplets of it splashed all over the bar - prised the bag open, and threw a handful of rice at the ducks and pigeons.

"Don't they die from eating that?" Sable asked conversationally.

"Yes." He smiled a bloodless, oily smile. "And isn't that beautiful?"

"Park authorities won't like it..." Carmine twirled the little toothpick that had come with her glass, which looked suspiciously like a sword. "But then again, they're not complaining about an entire damn wedding reception at the waterfront, so who am I to say?"

 

They watched the happy couple clumsily twirl each other and step on each other's toes, and yet being so deliriously in love that the air was practically vibrating with it.

 

Pollution threw another handful of rice.

War tripped a man so he upended his wine glass all over a woman in a very expensive dress.

And Famine loudly announced "wow, I must've put on at least five pounds with how heavy this butter cream is!" to their surroundings.

 

I CAN'T TAKE YOU THREE ANYWHERE. Death muttered under his non-breath. HONESTLY.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Agnes Nutter

 

At a coffeeshop somewhere in the states, a young man named Artie was preparing coffee and wishing he worked somewhere else.*

 

*This is a prevalent attitude young workers exhibit even at the most paradisal workplaces, and is really just another way to say they wished they wouldn't have to work at all, which one can hardly blame them for.

 

His current customer was an older woman in the most quintessentially hippie outfit Artie had ever seen, from the coloured strands in her hair down to the sandals over colourful socks. She also wore a wide skirt with flower print, though the writing on the hoodie didn't quite make sense to him.

The stylised cauldron on the front was fine, he supposed, but why was it saying "#totalWitch" above it?*

 

*This was roughly 15 years before the popularisation of the hashtag, mind.

 

Must be a weird hippie grandma thing, Artie thought, and added the package of... what, pumpkin spice? Strange - that the customer had requested he put in the latte.

"Here y'go, ma'am." He pushed the drinks across the counter, along with the pastries she'd ordered. "That'll be 5.50$."

"Keepeth the change, ba-ree-sta." The hippie grandma said with a distinct twinkle in her eye, handing him twenty dollars.

(Strange accent. From the old country, Artie supposed. _Brits.)_

"Ande..." The surprisingly generous grandma leaned in close. "Useth it to go forth and watcheth a movey witthe thy deareft friend, younge Artey. Thif be promised: he shalt be thy belovéd boyefriend 'ere the fortnyght's gone!"

Artie blinked.

"Wait... w-what?" He finally stammered.

The hippie grandma _who knew far too much about his love life!_ only threw a wink over her shoulder as she headed back to her table.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Funny story, what happened to Agnes Nutter, Witch, Matchmaker, and, for a rather short time, Fiery Explosion Waiting To Happen.

 

After being blown up - a little past schedule, but what could you do - Agnes had suddenly found herself in a white room, so sparklingly clean that any normal 17th century individual might've swooned.

(Not Agnes, though. She was perfectly familiar with the advanced hygiene of future generations.)

Across from her sat a very miffed-looking being complete with wings and halo, informing her that somebody Higher Up* quite liked her style, and deeply appreciated the sterling work she'd done for the Ineffable Plan.

 

*The Highest.

 

Hence - and the angelic clerk had looked especially miffed at that - a reward was due, they informed her, pushing a few files across the desk, and if she would just point to whichever she liked best.*

 

*Because, if the Almighty wanted to give humans a gift, it was always one of Choice and Free Will.

 

They were all just one page, _"Retirement Plan"_ written at the top, with a single word underneath: _Heaven, Hell*..._

 

*Apparently Heaven was quite nice for the pious folk, but many people who preferred a little zest in their immortal existence were better served going with the alternative.

 

...and _Earth._

Agnes had never in her life - literally, she was dead after all - made a quicker decision.

 

_Oh, and one more thing..._

The clerk, if they were being paid at all, clearly felt like it wasn't nearly enough. They were probably going to send someone else down, someone Heaven didn't really want to lay claim to, and Hell believed would be far better punished by being sent to Earth than anything they'd ever be able to do.

It was advised Agnes didn't interact with him. They had A History, apparently, and it was a big enough world to let her have her reward and him his punishment separately without ever meeting.

 

Agnes had never been the type to stick to anyone's instructions, whether they came from an angel or not.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Agnes balanced her order best she could, winding her way through the café towards the solitary figure hunched over the corner table.

He was glaring at the frivolous advertisement across the street, and looking quite tortured indeed. Hell truly had had the right of it with this form of punishment.

"Here, thou willst lyke thif!" She cheerfully offered him one of the drinks.

"Whatt is thif newe Devilrey!?" Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer groused, eyeing the cup doubtfully.

"Oh, doth shutte up, thou insuferable bufybodey." Agnes shoved the latte - complete with pumpkin spice - into his hands. "'Tis a specyaltey of the Bucke of Starrs, and moft yummey. Drynk!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Now, the Esteemed Readers might well be quite confused at this development.

(That's quite alright. We were too.)

See, it's like this: to create camaraderie between two people, there need be no love, no friendship, not even a hint of affection between them.

Only the understanding that, in some aspects, they are currently sitting in the same boat, and, however much they despise each other, staying in said boat is preferable to making a swim for it alone.

Adultery Pulsifer* had been cast into the modern world, just like Agnes had, and was far less adept in navigating it.

 

*He would forcefully protest against us shortening his name, but since he was a rather nasty man who burned people just because he was, as Agnes will tell you in confidence, "nott welle-endowéd and moft infecure aboute it", we frankly don't care.

 

He needed guidance and somebody to procure funds by foretelling the next lottery numbers, she was getting one hell of a kick out of the faces he made at scantily clad females and technology...

It was win-win, all in all.

 

(And besides, every Witch needs someone to Find her now and then...)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Agnes sipped her own frappucino, and grinned in delight at the taste. The modern world truly was marvellous. For years and years, she'd seen only snapshots of its brilliance, frozen, faraway moments in fading yromem-s, and now...

 

Now it was all spread out before her, and it was _glorious._

Agnes loved it.

 

Since he was still too suspicious of the beverage to try a sip, Agnes nudged one of the pastries towards Adultery instead.

He responded with the kind of scandalised look more appropriate from someone who's just been offered a Faustian deal and has read all the fine print.

"Oh, yeete!" Agnes exclaimed dramatically. "Thou willst never have aney Fun!"

"Fun!?" Adultery snapped. "Fun is _sinneful!_ "

"Aye," Agnes responded patiently. "That be whatt _maketh_  it Fun, Adultery, honestley. Liveth a lyttle!"

He didn't give the impression he would.

 

(However, he did try the pumpkin spice latte, and Agnes took a certain vindictive pleasure in watching his eyes widen in surprise, shining with amazement and impending self-flaggelation for enjoying earthly pleasures. Seeing him guilt-trip himself was SUCH a joy.)

 

One day, Agnes would return to England.

She'd go and find her beloved Anathema, introduce herself to Adam, have tea with Madame Tracy and gloat at the angel and demon, all those fun things... but that was still far in the future.

Mostly because Adultery was nowhere _near_  ready to be told that his direct descendant had married a witch. Agnes delighted in his suffering, of course, but this was something he had to be eased into lest his pitiful sanity just give way completely.*

 

*Which would honestly be a shame, he was ever so entertaining.

 

And besides...

They had a whole world to see first.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Aziraphale and Crowley

 

It was very late at night, and Aziraphale and Crowley were watching telly.

Well.

 _Aziraphale_  was watching, Crowley had dozed off during the third episode of _Golden Girls,_  leaving Aziraphale free to change the channel and watch one of those murder mysteries that made you wonder what they put into scones these days, to have such a high crime rate in sleepy little countryside villages.

"Oh my!" Aziraphale suddenly gasped, jostling Crowley, who had been peacefully snoring, slumped against Aziraphale's side and with the angel's hand methodically carding through his hair.

"W-wha?" Crowley exclaimed weakly.

"Isn't that- look, Crowley, the nun about to sacrifice the nice detective inspector - isn't that Mary Loquacius?"

"Oh. Yeah." Crowley flopped back down into Aziraphale's lap, now that it was established that no mortal danger would be forthcoming. "The nuns are doing TV now."

"They- Really?" Aziraphale blinked.

"Mh-hm. Recorded some of their rituals, sent it to the BBC." Crowley yawned, spine cracking as he stretched. "Big hit. They barely get to sing at events anymore, they're so booked out."

"Oh." Aziraphale contemplated this, while Ethel portrayed a fantastic traumatised novice on the screen. "Well. Good for them."

"Sure." Crowley snuggled a little closer. "Threw them a pizza party after they got their frst gig, even."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale beamed down at him. "What a lovely gesture!"

"Not really, angel." Crowley smiled something that he might hope was wicked, but, in reality, looked quite a bit goofier than he'd like. "There was pineapple on all the slices."

Aziraphale gasped in mock outrage that was about 40% serious.*

 

*In Aziraphale's very British-esque eyes, the sweet did NOT go with the savoury, and pineapple on anything other than dessert was a travesty.

Crowley often contemplated pointing out this hypocrisy while the angel was dipping a sushi roll into some sweet-and-sour sauce, but decided not to bother.

 

"You foul fiend, you!" He chided, flicking the wily serpent's forehead in the most divine-retribution way he could manage.

Crowley giggled - yes, giggled, though he would say we have no proof - sleepily, trying his level best to just burrow his face in the softness of Aziraphale's belly.

One couldn't possibly stay cross after such an endearing display, so Aziraphale let it be.

 

 

By the time the murder mystery came to a close - surprisingly, the cultist nuns had NOT killed the poor old vicar, fancy that - Crowley was fast asleep again, and Aziraphale had eaten all the good biscuits from the tin.

"Dearest?" He leaned down to whisper in Crowley's ear, gently shaking him awake. "It's getting quite late, and..."

"Don't go!" Still disoriented from sleep, Crowley suddenly grasped whatever part of Aziraphale he could reach, panic gleaming in his eyes. "Stay at my place!"

"Go?" Aziraphale blinked. "Darling, I was merely suggesting a relocation to the bed! Are you quite alright?"

"Yeah." Crowley took a calming breath. "Yeah, I just... yeah. Weird dream, that's all."

Aziraphale hummed, turning off the telly.

"I should've said that in the first place." Crowley said, apropos of nothing.

"Said what, dear boy?"

"The don't go bit. Back after the first Apocalypse."

"And what, precisely, would that have changed?" Aziraphale frowned, a little confused.*

 

*Due to his massive alcohol intake, he remembered rather little of that night, except vague pining and mourning his bibles.

 

"Don't know." Crowley shrugged, throwing back the tartan quilt and waking Eve, who had been curled up at the foot end of the couch. "Just - ssssorry, ssssssssweetheart - just felt like it was one of those turning points. Where things hang in the balance, you know."

"Oh, don't be silly, my dear." Aziraphale expertly shepherded him to the bedroom. "It does not do to deal in hypotheticals."

Once miracled into pyjamas and under the blanket, Crowley immediately curled himself around Aziraphale, who was settling in for a good few hours of reading until he'd wake again.

 

 

"...darling?" Aziraphale suddenly whispered at some slighly later point during the night, running his thumb over the little golden ring on Crowley's hand. "Are you still awake?"

Crowley grumbled something vague.

"If... if you'd asked..."

 

Perhaps this was not how an angel and a demon should feel about each other...

But, in Aziraphale's humble opinion, anyone who thought so could get right stuffed.

 

"I think I would've come with you." He said simply.

Crowley's eyes slid open again.

For the rest of the night, very little sleeping and reading was getting done.

 

 

 

And so, in a way, we've come full circle, now that the missed invitation - remember, the very first chapter? Seems so long ago now - has been extended and accepted.

 

 

 

The narrative could end here...

 

 

 

Except.

Except, we've forgotten someone, haven't we?

 

You, dear reader. We've forgotten _you._

 

It is Sunday.

A strange Sunday, a lovely day, and yet, you think, wasn't there something odd just now? On the radio? A strange light, the Thing at the edge of your vision suddenly there and remarkably understanding, and then nothing?

 

Don't you worry, dear reader. All is well.

 

If you like, you can wander off now, wondering about how you could've _sworn_  you were in your flat a moment ago, down the paths of St. James's park, a little aimless perhaps.

On your left, crowded around a bench, there's a gaggle of people, all looking as if something had put the fear of religious entities into them; except for a little boy, with a dog and golden locks, arms around two other children and speaking calming words to a third.

He smiles at you as you pass.

 

Maybe, in your aimless ambling, you reach the Bridge of Spies.

The ducks are looking funny today, you think, idly, but then notice two figures standing by the waterfront.

They radiate besottedness, with the world and even more so with each other, and there's a sense of something in the air, of deep, profound love.

If you stay a bit to bask in that warm, cozy feeling, you'll see them share a kiss only just on this side of public indecency.

Then, arms slung around each others' waists, they walk off together, only pausing briefly to throw a handful of bread at what you now realise is a rather miffed-looking walking duck skeleton.

They look happier than you ever thought two humans - or human-shaped beings - could look.

 

 

You'll probably never see them again.

But if you try and listen, you might, sometimes, _hear._

 

 

You could be sitting in a quaint little sushi restaurant, and somewhere behind you a couple is arguing, "South Downs? Really, dearest, I don't think so!" - "But it's lovely, angel, you'll adore it!"; and before you can think to turn around, they've already left.

 

Waiting at a bus stop, you might notice a gaggle of nuns walking by, chattering excitedly about how they have been invited to sing at 'Master Crowley's Satanic Handfasting Ceremony'*.

 

*"Which it is, no matter how often Master Aziraphale calls it a wedding!"

 

Maybe, when you pass that one bookstore that never seems to open, press your ear to the door; I promise you you'll hear laughter.

 

And another day, a perfectly ordinary day long after you've forgotten about all these strange happenings, you might be sitting on a bench in Berkeley Square, and hear a very self-satisfied nightingale sing.

 

 

(And sometimes, while wandering the streets of London on a quiet, peaceful night with the stars shining overhead - if it weren't for light pollution, of course, but we're trying to be poetic here - there it will be:

Music, harmonising gloriously with the roar of a Bentley's engine.

 _Don't stop me now,_ Freddie Mercury sings faintly in the distance. _I'm having such a good time._

 

And, if the wind blows the right direction, and you really, properly strain your ears:

 _I never want to stop at all..._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it.  
> I feel strangely empty...
> 
> I'll post the illustrations chapter soon-ish, and, as said before, maybe I'll add a few new ones to the main story, we'll see.
> 
> Once more, thank you for all the encouragement, I adore you all, please do come visit my [Tumblr,](https://wyvernquill.tumblr.com) I'd love to make more friends!  
> (Also, I do find it quite fun to write out short bits or do a quick drawing to headcanons/ideas that are suggested to me, so... that's something I might do?)
> 
> I have a few other story ideas lined up, too, so I doubt this is the last you'll see of me!
> 
> ~WQ  
> \^-^/ <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3!!!!


	18. Bonus: Like A Landscape Painting In The Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here are all the illustrations, plus the weird, semi-random Queen lyrics I chose as titles in my drawing app!  
> (Speaking of, GlassyTheRosePen has made a playlist out of all Queen songs mentioned in the fic!!! Link is in the notes to the prologue!)  
> Enjoy!

 Prologue: Spread Your Wings

 

 Chapter 2: Listen To The Wise

 

 Chapter 3: Coming Your Way

 

 Chapter 4: Leave My Memory With You

 

 Chapter 5: Every Leaf On Every Tree

 

 Chapter 6: Forever Is Our Today

 

Chapter 7: I Get Religion Quick

 

 Chapter 8: Shivers Down My Spine

 

 Chapter 9: She's A Killer Queen

 

 Chapter 10: The Show Must Go On

 

 Chapter 11: Here We Fall

 

 Intermission: A Kind Of Magic

 

 Chapter 13: Dance The Night Away

 

 Chapter 14: Burning Through The Sky

 

 Chapter 15: Flee For Your Lives

 

 Chapter 15: Give Us A Kiss

 

 Chapter 16: Cool Deception

 

 Chapter 16: Heaven For Everyone

 

 Epilogue: 'Til The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter... this really is the end.  
> One last THANK YOU for reading and enjoying, I will miss all of you dearly...  
> ^-^ <3 <3 <3


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